


The Prince Consort, Part I/VI

by Persephone



Series: Willing to Take the Risk [18]
Category: Valentine's Day (2010)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Father-Son Relationship, L.A. Life, Los Angeles, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 05:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5151623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pro football player wishes to marry into a wealthy American family. Being gay, out, and in the NFL are the least of his problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On a Tuesday morning at the start of April, eight weeks into his offseason, he was sitting on a garden wall at the home of Alastair Wilson, holding the hand of the man he intended to marry.

His parents were somewhere on the grounds roaming the fairy tale gardens. His father-in-law to-be, the real estate magnate, was for the love for his son, and a newfound understanding that life shouldn’t be wasted was busy supervising the service of their big breakfast. The magnate’s high-born ex-wife and possibly former partner in crime, was not yet present. They were waiting on her.

The focus of his desire, and the reason he was in this mostly unbelievable situation, was letting him hold him by the hand while pacing an occasional arc around his knees, on the phone with his secretary.

If Holden had contemplated joining his own future in-laws on their plant life inspection, he didn’t know. He hadn’t let him break physical contact since their arrival. He couldn’t make himself let go and miss more time of being together. 

Holden, still looking hot and scrubbed from their morning’s welcome back shower, hadn’t protested him retaining his hand. The scent of him, vaguely of confection powder this time, but always so potently of mind-melting things, was making it pointless to try and focus. And his skin, which had paled again from his time in Johnston, was bring back a headful of memories. And judging by the hot, mindless things Holden had whispered to him last night, after a week plus absence, he’d guess that Holden had missed him too.

He could sense that amid ranging in and out of the house, Alastair wouldn’t have minded engaging them in conversation. But this morning he wasn’t feeling altruistic. He just wanted to get married.

A year ago he’d barely been able to consider it an option for his life: Marriage, openly. The hopes of stability and a family of his own. Yet so close to it now, they found themselves stuck in other people’s wishes. As if grabbing hold of their own hadn’t been work enough. So that as the weeks grew shorter to July, and to the pre-season, he grew shorter on interest for time spent observing protocol.

So there he sat on the low garden wall, keeping hold of Holden and daring to hope that they were finally about to make progress. That the last few months efforts had not been washed away. With his folks here he could almost believe it, and after three months of mixed results in keeping all three Wilsons from exploding at each other, he could definitely use the help.

Holden finished the call, hitting the end call button with a sideways glance at him. His direct eyes were calm. Holden then pocketed the phone, and coming closer, slipped his arm around his shoulders. A warm kiss found its ways to his temple. “Everything’s gonna be fine,” Holden said softly, staring down at his lowered eyes. “You’ve gotten us this far and I’m gonna do my part from now on. I promise you that.”

He nodded, not doubting it. He still had no real idea what had gone down in Johnston and what the plans were for this morning, but he knew that defense now had the field.

Holden, now standing to one side of him, tipped his head at his effort at a hopeful expression. 

“Did Alastair propose to you while I was gone? Is that why the gloomy face? Just tell him you’re mine.”

He smirked to himself, while Holden squeezed his shoulder, encouragingly. Like comforting an old friend. It was such a goofy gesture that he couldn’t help laughing a little.

“Much better,” Holden said. “You’re gorgeous when you smile. I can hardly think clearly when you do that.”

He laughed even more. For Holden, this was smooth talk. But soon he noticed that Holden had gone quiet, and when he glanced up at him he found his gaze across the garden. “My mom’s here.”

*

When they had been preparing to leave the ACLU fundraiser the night before, Holden had changed his mind about Anne and Wil staying at Alastair’s.

Handing in his ticket at valet, he had watched as Holden went and briefly conferred with his folks before returning to suggest that they treat them to a bungalow stay at the Bel-Air instead.

He’d taken one look at the situation, bearing in mind that he had just had nearly two weeks of grasping when Holden had left him on the bench, and he had simply agreed.

During the season, course adjustments cropped up. After sending months watching things not go right, at a point the coaches inevitably entered the team manger’s office and closed the door. There they talked at length to each other, and only a player asking for trouble demanded to know what was being discussed. Better you waited until the bosses were done getting whatever they loved or hated about your performance off their chests, then called you in. 

At that point you hoped that they had let off enough steam to be kind enough to treat you to a nicer version of what had been said inside the room. No matter how tough you thought you were as a player, you didn’t want to get the raw cider. 

Well, he’d gotten enough offseason raw cider from January alone to not need anymore of it for some time.

Upon witnessing that closed-door moment between Holden and his folks, therefore, he’d been the last person interested in querying the sudden change in plans. Also, he was pretty sure he was the least aware of the exact goings-on of the night.

And he hadn’t really need an explanation for why Holden had had a change of heart. Both Wilsons’ clear surprise at the sight of Mr. and Mrs. Jackson with their son had been confirmation enough that the point that been made. That the dynamics of the summer had changed.

Alastair had appeared thrilled to see his folks, Cecelia openly cool. Their attitudes seemed to be maintaining that morning as they all sat down to breakfast. A meal to get better acquainted, but ultimately to settle the field.

*

Alastair had set their breakfast with a casual tone. The meal was light and served by a white-clad Alvarez and his staff, greeting him formally, but their presence reminding him of the humanity actually surrounding Holden’s family. The thing his sweetheart was always reaching for. 

Seeing Alvie smiling and nodding at him seemed to be saying that things would be all right.

The casual tone made it seem as if everything had been planned months ago instead jacked into the week. Soon it was obvious that everyone at the table had accepted that as the proper demeanor for the morning.

He seemed the only one whose heart was doing speed drills like it was first week of training camp.

He shifted his gaze from the jams and crêpes to his completely composed lover. From there to said lover’s crazy-rich-people parents. And from there to his own, no doubt ready-for-confrontation mom and pop. This was while his heart was thudding, and while the rest of them all sat talking causally like old friends.

And true to his words last night, Holden was astoundingly calm toward Alastair.

Seated beside him, with Anne on his right side, Holden was neither tense nor stiff toward his dad. It was almost unbelievable to see, and thinking back, he could only remember seeing this type of scene a year ago. Before Cecelia’s very first and disastrous cocktail party for them last June. Before that truly messed up summer kicked in.

It seemed as though voicing his frustrations about his relationship with his parents had given Holden enough relief to allow him to mange neutrality around them. 

It wasn’t that Holden was being warm toward his father, but he did catch him slipping Alastair looks that, while not outright hopeful, seemed to bubble up on curiosity.

But for the most part Holden was mainlining his breakfast, offering suggestions to Anne on just how to consume a protein and sugar filled breakfast. An interaction which Cecelia was eyeing...rather coldly. But Holden was showing neither signs of noticing her, nor of an affected appetite. While he was feeling every mouthful of avocado-butter scrambled eggs slide down his throat with immense difficulty. He’d experienced less tension waiting for takedowns from the Cowboys line of scrimmage.

His parents were side by side on a cushioned, wrought iron love seat, cordially eating their breakfast as if on vacation.

Their self guided tour of the grounds apparently a success, the two of them looked flushed with satisfaction. His dad’s mood was typically relaxed, per usual not really caring what the undercurrents were. Wil was all about having a good time wherever he was and was talking freely with whomever started conversation in his direction.

As for his mother… well… 

Before arriving that morning, he and Holden had driven them around the hills of Bel Air and Hombly, to show a little of the sights. During the drive there still hadn't been any talk of what would be said the Wilsons, and his mom had had the poker face she needfully wore that Davey called the Lady Anne game face.

Having spent half a lifetime dealing with coaches and organizations, from his peewee football days to the day he’d retained professional management, his folks were veterans of interpersonal drama. His mother especially. They didn’t need the warmup. _Nothing_ was getting past her.

He ate and tried to calm his fraying nerves, half listening to them conversing with the Wilsons. Some part of him was also trying to tell him that that in itself a head trip to see, wanting him to laugh without finding it funny at all. That if he thought about the conditions under which he had envisioned his folks meeting the Wilsons, how stressed he had been when all Allison had done was invite Holden to dinner against his will, he’d see just how funny it all was.

He swallowed his eggs and whole grain pancakes and listened to his folks enlightening the Wilsons on the complexities of professional athletic opportunities. Such as guiding “a young and eager son” through decisions of whether to finish college or take early entry into the NFL. 

“Always the former,” his dad said, nodding sagely. “There’s plenty of time for stardom, but endorsements can’t buy you a brain. That’s what I told him,” to Alastair’s rapt nods.

They were engaging stories, maybe, but he knew his folks were also, subtly but unmistakably, striking the attitude of proud parents with a son also worth discussing, not to be considered any less successful than anyone else’s, for any reason. 

He wanted to shake his head. Parents.

Last night, after checking them in at the Bel-Air, they’d taken his folks for late-night decaf lattes at the hotel bar. The evening had mostly been them and Holden filling him in on Johnston city council’s plans for him in the coming months. Information that left him speechless. The councilwoman who’d been haranguing him since he’d shown up in town in January, the same one behind his speech on Sled Night, was evidently deadly serious about wanting him, “the most prominent gay Iowan,” to have his wedding in town. Well, good news for her, Holden had actually settled on having a wedding event in Johnston. Everyone had won. And he was just happy it was off his plate.

While the three of them had gone on to tell him other stuff he was more curious about because of Holden’s interest, what the night had really shown him was that his mom and dad were very satisfied with the way things had turned out. Especially his mother. Not necessarily over Johnston’s boon over the wedding, either. 

Holden had been too blissful over the evening to notice the way his father had sighed every so often, patting the table in his direction as if to let him know all was forgiven. And hours before at the fundraiser, his mom had given him a particularly cuddly kiss that had assured him that she was in helplessly happy mom mode and definitely over his foolishness.

With the four of them happily talking at length around the restaurant’s dining table, he knew they considered Holden, and Holden’s enthusiasm for their family, a satisfactory ending to the saga of him showing up at their home months before, telling them his very socially scrutinized engagement was off. He felt their relief as tangibly as anything, and he felt proud of Holden. No matter how much they tried to explain it, he knew that hardly anyone could understand just how far they both had come as a couple.

Meanwhile at the current table, Alastair was eating up everything his dad was saying. Cecelia, not so much.

He tried to catch Holden’s eye but Holden, relaxed and the picture of confidence, was as engaged as Alastair, while somehow still managing to show full concentration on his food.

While Alastair queried on nuggets of Midwestern lifestyle, a thing he truly seemed enamored with, Cecelia’s interest lay only in stiffly engaging his mother, while occasionally eyeing her son, on what exactly Johnston’s city council was hoping for the wedding.

Holden wasn't paying attention to Cecelia, and it was being largely disinterested in that topic that gave him the excuse to not look too often in her direction. Not wishing to give her the impression that he was overly aware of her. 

Which he definitely was.

It still stung like a well placed hit that she had pulled off what she did two weeks ago. That prenup bomb of hers. It still hurt to be in a quiet moment and so easily visualize what she really thought of his most intimate possession, his love for her son. That it was so easily quantifiable to her.

It hurt to know that she still didn’t consider him good enough for her son. She could sit there and have a conversation with his parents, but he didn’t believe for a moment that anything had changed. It was just fact that who he was, his profession and background, continued to remain unacceptable to her.

Intellectually, he knew the situation could be much worse. He could be faced with future in-laws who couldn’t stomach a gay son. Or who pretended that they could and secretly hoped for nothing but bad things for them. He remembered vividly enough how it had been years ago in his own family.

But knowing it intellectually did nothing for him emotionally. And at times he could even convince himself that it just wasn’t personal. But he knew better than that. And it would continue to embarrass him that she had outmaneuvered him on this particular field of play, the one of entry into her family.

With the main course finished, their meal was cleared away, replaced with sweet cakes and colorful juices in sparkling spun and blown glassware. It all looked very, very welcoming. 

And he felt more tension easing as Alastair dabbed his mouth with his napkin and took up his fork. Clearing his throat, Alastair dinged his water glass. 

“Hi, everyone,” Alastair said warmly, more his easy self than he had seen in months. “Thanks for being here. I’d like to start with that, because it’s been a…difficult few weeks for various reasons.”

Holden, to whom the statement was obviously directed, said nothing.

“But it’s my firm belief that difficult times are what bring families together.”

Wil was nodding, while his mother gently speared her chunk of cake. He also didn’t miss his dad’s hand discreetly going to her shoulder in a small, barely noticeable move to placate. 

“Before we get started,” Alastair said, turning with a ready smile to his son. “I’d like to apologize for the way things went the last time, son. I think it’s safe to say that tempers were tripped. But I think that whatever was said can can be put aside in favor of a fresh start.”

His heart bumped to a stop. Looking straight at Alastair, he sent him a warning look, wanting him to leave that particular issue alone and not get caught up in that mess. Talking Holden down from banning his parents from the wedding would carry ramifications, none of which were going to be Alastair’s battle to fight.

Alastair saw his look and glanced at his son, then cleared his throat and immediately moved on.

After some additional welcoming, opening their home to his folks for a stay anytime, Alastair ceded the table to Holden, and Holden sat up, dabbed his mouth, and launched into it without preamble.

Holden was basically delivering what they had come two weeks ago to say, but this time without room at the top for anyone but the two of them, and bolstered by information from his trip.

While Holden spoke, it seemed even Cecelia was in retreat.

And slowly, but surely, tension continued seeping out of him.

It was actually happening. Weeks after their wedding invitations had gone out with their permission, they were all at the same table, moving in lockstep. At long last, it seemed the summer had found its wheels.

And he continued thinking so until he actually looked at Cecelia.

Cecelia’s eyes were on his new engagement ring.

She was staring at it as if seeing an apparition.

He blinked at her, wondering which of them was having a disconnect. Had she not seen it prior to now?

But her face had gone very pale. And she continued to look like someone suddenly aware that she had missed entire chapters.

With his hands very still, he looked across the table at Holden.

Holden was staring back at him. 

Against a backdrop of lovely cream irises and wistful blue Russian sage, Holden’s eyes took in the scene. Alastair had began responding to something his dad said, and Holden first threw a look at his mother, then discreetly shook his head at him, as if to denounce the ridiculousness of her reaction.

Not caring to check if Cecelia had seen Holden’s reaction, he slowly pulled his hands off the table and brought them to rest between his knees.

*

Last night after they had settled his folks in for the night, Holden had taken him back to his condo, made him stand by his bed. They’d been in the process of undressing him. 

More specifically, he’d been in the process of undressing himself when it had looked like Holden’s adventurous yet unskilled style would fatally challenge the endeavor. 

But with his shirt finally off, his trousers unzipped, Holden had sat on the edge of the bed and had taken on an air of concentration. Facing him, at around mouth to waist level, Holden had taken the time to pat around his hips, then fished inside his pants pocket and carefully extracted the box.

The box he had been carrying in his pocket since their interruption on the balcony. The one which had been burning a hole in his leg through lattes with his folks. The navy-blue box of improbability. Closed up and handed back to him, Holden had asked him to hold on to it until he could “properly” give it to him later that night.

Later that night came so much later than he would have wished.

But there they were, in Holden’s expansive, slight overwarm bedroom, both of them ignoring their excited states for now. And he watched, embarrassed that he was barely breathing.

Was this really what it was like to be on the other end of it. To be asked. To be wanted.

Of course it was. He had experienced it in the fall, and it had permanently wrecked him.

Holden slowly cracked open the box. Raised his hot blue eyes at him. And Holden just stared up at him, while he felt the same feeling of surreality from earlier that evening. What was happening seemed important in ways he knew weren’t sinking in yet.

He didn’t allow himself a single distracting thought. 

He tried instead to make the world stop and wait until Holden had taken out the ring. An event that went as smoothly as could have been predicted. But at last Holden was setting down the box on the night stand, turning back to take his hand. Gently holding his hand and slipping on the ring.

When it was on, Holden simply sat there, letting his fingers linger on the ring. Stroking it, staring wordlessly at it.

A slim, simple band of platinum and small diamonds. Understated, frills-free.

He stared down at Holden’s brown head, his heart tightening.

Holden looked up, his eyes as serious as he had ever seen.

“Aren’t you going to smile?” Holden asked. 

He shook his head.

Holden lowered his head again, and said nothing, his body tight with emotion.

What had he said, that the ring was his beacon to the world. That everyone should know he was his.

It took so very much in life to achieve the smallest things. For him the entire world in a gift of this small, precious thing from a man for whom commitment had once been the ugliest of words.

*

“Sean!” Cecelia called. “Is that a new ring?”

Stopped at Holden’s Lexus, his daydream went flying into the clear Bel Air sky.

He took his time turning to face her.

His folks were still by the doors talking to Alastair, and Holden was inside dropping in on the house staff, saying hi. Or possibly just grabbing some of those sweet cakes to go.

As he’d passed, he’d heard his dad telling Alastair that no doubt everything would work out. “We’re planning a wedding, not managing a football franchise,” Wil had said, to which Alastair laughed and agreed that things had gone very well. “Good job, Sean,” Alastair said as he’d walked by.

He’d thanked him, knowing that things had, getting that Holden’s call had in fact been the right one. Things seemed evened out, family to family.

He’d made it all the way to Holden’s car thinking they were actually going to make a clean getaway. But Cecelia had now spoken. He hadn’t even seen her approach.

Placing his arms on the hood of Holden’s car, he looked across their divide at her. She was poised by her pearly white Mercedes, still staring at him.

Her tone, in asking her question, had been frustratingly deeply curious. But he had recovered from his own discomfort at her reaction, and his memories of getting the ring last night were strong, acting like a shield. And he _was_ short on altruism toward the Wilsons this morning. 

So he smiled, what could actually be called a smirk, at her.

“As a matter of fact, it is,” he said, lifting his hand and watching the ring catch the morning sunlight. Holden’s keys dangling from his fingers gave the moment a nice little sound effect. 

“Not bad for four years’ worth of work, huh?” he asked.

She reacted visibly, her brow pinching tightly. She didn’t seem to find his joke funny at all.

Then she simply let out a breath and did what had probably worked for her for a long time. 

She slowly, studiedly, curved her lips until a smile sat there. And just like that, she had regained her composure. 

And despite himself he was affected, because it looked so much like Holden’s smile, but a kind he had never seen Holden, who never smiled fakely, give.

She turned and beeped her car. “Just in time for the wedding. How fortunate.”

His smile, tight and live, faltered. But she was getting into the car and not looking at him anymore. She called that she would see him soon, started up the car, and put it in gear. He watched her drive through the gates. 

With each passing encounter, he got a better understanding of the phrase, “for better or worse.”

The new ring on his finer suddenly seemed to be burning hotter. He looked down at it and smiled. _Thanks, sweetheart._

Getting into Holden’s car, he put Cecelia out of mind and pulled the car up alongside the house. Where his parents were descending the steps. His mother had her eyes on where she was placing her feet and was talking to his dad, but he had the feeling she had seen his strange chat with Cecelia. She must have seen Cecelia leaving and there was no way she hadn’t kept an eye on him. 

Though he could practically hear her posing the question: _What did she want with you?_ , they reached him and got in without a word from her.

Back at the house, Holden was exiting.

Holden muttered to his dad, heading down the flight of steps fast, all before Alastair could respond. Curbing his ready smile, Alastair raised a hand at his fleeing son. And he was out of the car himself and around the hood before Holden got to them, catching him on the other side.

Holden, white box in hand, gave him a knowing look when he took it from him. Setting the box on the hood of the car, he took Holden by the waist, and while Holden said nothing, he gently turned him back in the direction of the house.

“Sean, it’s a little early—”

“Go back and tell him thanks for hosting us these past two weeks,” he said, ignoring Holden’s incongruent protest. “Tell him thanks for his efforts.”

Holden gave him a look that was meant to be firm and impatient but which just came off as worried.

“He’ll think I’m crazy.”

“He thinks you’re God’s gift to this earth. Go, go, go, before he goes back inside.”

Feet around his, Holden wasn’t moving. Not forward, at least. Just shifting and bumping his loafers against his Pumas. But he kept pushing anyway, simply extending his arms until Holden achieved locomotion and began walking back to the house.

Stalled at the entrance, Alastair had been pretending not to be monitoring the situation. But as Holden returned, Alastair looked like his morning’s efforts had returned success.

Holden stood with one foot on the lower step, his long leg braced on the upper one, and began talking, saying God only knew what. While Alastair held him by the shoulder, his body language like any small provocation would trigger a hug. 

And yet Holden wasn’t pulling away, or even being stiff. And after speaking, he let his father respond.

Watching the whole thing play out, he couldn’t help but see the father who two weeks ago had shown him photo albums full of touching memories. Of a time he could do no wrong. In life, you wanted what you wanted, he knew all about that. And he respected that Alastair Wilson wanted a relationship with his son again.

Leaning against the passenger side of the car, he sent Holden all his love. The kind of telepathic outreach his best commentators told him scored touchdowns.

Finishing up, Holden gave Alastair a few stiff nods before gently extricating himself from his father’s grip. And descending the steps, Holden was flushed. A good sign indeed. It meant there had been thoughts of giving out a hug.

Next time.

Glancing into the back seat of the car, he saw his parents talking to each other. He caught his dad’s eye and gave him a querying look, jerking his head ever so slightly at his mother. 

His dad gave him a thumbs-up.

*

Not the types to hang around, his folks were set to return to Johnston that afternoon, saying they had a lot to do in Johnston anyway. So by early afternoon they were seeing them off at LAX, with Holden holding his hand and kissing them goodbye as if he were the son and Sean Jackson the guy he’d brought along to meet them.

As they stood in the terminal, there was a lot of gasping and phone-tapping. Long since resigned to this new strain of celebrity of theirs, he only listened carefully as his mother whispered to him beneath the brim of his San Diego Padres hat. Saying that everything was going to be all right. 

Hoping she didn’t wholly believe that they were all headed for utopia because of that morning, he caught her eyes as he pulled back and was relieved to see that she didn’t. He kissed her cheek.

Then he slung an arm around his dad’s shoulder and standing between him and Holden, he tilted his head at Holden.

“Dad, be honest. I’m amazing.”

His pop chuckled. “We’ll see.”

“We’ll see?” he protested. “When do I get a yeah?”

“Well, we’ll see when.”

He smiled. “Tell Allison what you saw, dad.”

“Will do, son.”

Still holding his hand, Holden waved as they headed toward security. He nodded at them, his other hand in the pocket of his sweatshirt, wondering whether the continued hand holding meant they weren’t done with their welcome back action of this morning.

Keeping pace with Holden’s long strides as they left the terminal, he was shortly proven very correct.

*

And so they were finally concluded their meetings in Bel Air. After Holden had left for work he laid in bed for another hour or so with his head under the pillows, applying every skill of relaxation he possessed. And eventually he felt himself coming down. From a few months, several weeks, and a weekend that seemed to have lasted an entire football season.

*


	2. Chapter 2

Elliot was mad as hell at him and was refusing to answer his calls. Each time he called Elliot rejected with a template reply: “Unavailable to talk. Pls send text.” Petey was outright unwilling to communicate.

Feeling accomplished from that morning, and from the past couple of weeks, he was feeling a bit let down by his friends. Having left Sean in a hurry to join a late afternoon JP Morgan meeting, he’d thought he could close out the day with success all around. 

He was also feeling great because he had appended to the success of the past week a call to Kate, who had been so thrilled to hear from him and had agreed to get back to him with a dinner date.

Meanwhile, at the meeting this afternoon he’d sat across from an unrepentant Craig who’d spilled the beans about having met Sean. Whether intentionally or not, however, was hard to tell with Craig. When he’d shaken his head at him, at his continual failure to have a clue, Craig had only shrugged and said, “They’re mad at me too.” But he’d wondered how mad.

Now back in his office, he contemplated how to break the ice sheet his friends had erected around the situation. Petey, he knew wouldn’t respond on the phone no matter what he tried. For when it came to retribution and guilt, Petey liked having it play out in as dramatic a manner as possible. Hugs and kisses would also be a welcome touch to the resolution phase. Elliot, he could possible appeal to on a intellectual level, though a direct approach could take days. 

So forgoing further calls, he sent Elliot a text instead: 

_Sean really isn’t all that important, you know. You know *you’re my best man._

He added a smiley face and sent it, then watched as the tiny “D” denoting delivery appeared next to the text. Then he waited. A second later his phone lit up with Elliot’s call. Smiling, he accepted and brought the phone to his ear.

“You think you’re so cute, Holden.”

“You told me I was.”

Elliot gave him a withering look over the phone. He could tell. And he tried to look contritely at his shoes while it happened. But he wasn’t actually feeling contrite, nor was he actually looking at his shoes. He was trying to think ahead on resolving this issue of Sean meeting his friends. Because it wasn’t going to be comfortable.

“Why’re you wasting your time calling me?” Elliot said. “Just make this right.”

“I’m trying to. Let’s just talk about it. You, me and Petey. Maybe we could—”

“No.”

Taking a breath, he said, “What I was going to say was, we _should_ be able to pick a place and time for all of us to get together. Sean included.”

“Still no. We don’t want to be figured out and arranged before you show us. Half the internet _and Craig_ knows stuff before we do. Enough already.”

“But…you were so understanding a couple weeks ago. That heartfelt hug you gave me at Sofitel. The last time you hugged me like that was freshman year in college. Was that all a lie?”

“I swear to God, Holden—”

“Elliot, come on…”

“And for the record, I don’t understand it. I respected and appreciate the discomfort you obviously have over things going on with him, and maybe with your dad, especially after the mess you were all winter. But letting you go on like this, I’d be enabling shit. Why am I even having to say this? How are you getting married, Holden— _married_ —and I haven't even met the guy you’re marrying. Does that make any sense to you?”

“Well, if you won’t let me organize something, then what do you want me to do? Craig met him by chance, which if you think about it, is how it really should be.”

“Fuck chance. I know exactly what you’re doing. Don’t come to me for advice on how to _fuck_ him properly, then try to manipulate how I meet him. You’re trying to have it both ways. Whatever the reason you want him to think that ice wouldn’t melt in your mouth, you’re going about this the wrong damned way.”

He thought about it, and couldn’t come up with anything to say in his defense. “So… is…that a no?” he asked, after Elliot didn’t continue.

Deathly silence. He pursed his lips and waited.

“When you’re comfortable with who you are,” Elliot said stiffly. “Your real self, feel free to give your friends a call. Until then, I am putting you on call forwarding.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said, more surprised by the notion that everyone else seemed to have been applying this call forwarding concept to everyday life, when it had never even occurred to him.

Elliot had long since ended the call. 

Sighing, and not feeling as bad as he should, he lowered his phone to his desk. And gave it a disappointed look. Elliot needed to give him breathing room. He was taking care of pretty much everything else, wasn’t he?

He took a seat and found himself still gazing at the desk, until it sank in that his attention was being held by the slightly open desk drawer to his right. And the thought of his iPhone inside. Speaking of call forwarding. Pulling open the drawer, he saw the phone exactly where he had left it two weeks ago, not having been invited on his trip to Johnston. 

Dark and silent atop a stack of old asset reports. Every message from either Alastair or Cecelia Wilson, redirected and waiting to be read.

Asked two weeks ago what he’d want to see in there, he would have said two clear apologies, one from each. Covering the thoughtlessness of subjecting Sean to that prenup, acknowledging their utter failure in understanding, yet insisting on being continually present in his life.

But now that felt one-dimensional and small. He definitely wanted those apologies. But now he also wanted so much more. Not just words for the sake of conciliation, but what being with Sean had infected him with. 

He wanted family.

It didn’t even feel as weird and naive thinking about it. And when he was with Sean and said it, it felt downright warm and possible. This close to _being married,_ a concept which a mere year ago had drawn utter bewilderment from him, he could believe in almost anything. Feeling no urge, for instance—well, not much of an urge—to back away that morning when Sean had asked him to go thank his dad for hosting them. Rather than confusing thoughts of his dad’s backtracking on Ian, or any of those crazy texts he had been receiving, he had been thinking of the possibilities for the future. 

He wanted what he wanted. He had accepted that by now.

Nevertheless, he slowly closed the drawer. That morning’s progress was enough for now. No real point in pushing his luck and testing the god of patience by reading texts.

Besides all that, this evening he had an appointment to keep.

—

Two weeks ago he had sat in his bedroom and made a connection. At that time, he had reached an end that actually seemed to be an end, a lack of options that had given him near perfect clarity.

From the photos of their bittersweet departure from Anne and Wil’s house in February, to the wedding invitation he couldn’t seem to make himself take to Kate Hazeltine, he had finally let himself draw a simple straight line.

And the line had revealed a pretty large gap. From the man he used to be to the person he had become.

Real happiness, letting go of his old, doubtful self. That had been the image revealed in his iPad photo galleries. Then an image of the same, happy, smiling person. That had seemed to sit also on the invitation to Kate. 

But in-between had been an empty space. And distracted with issues with his family as he had been, he had wondered for much longer than he should have what belonged there.

He had left who he now was behind in Johnston. He blamed Sean a little, because Sean had not understood how fundamental the difference in their lives were. But he blamed himself the most, because he had allowed himself to take too long, to be contented and miserable holding onto Sean for direction and believing that sheer necessity would help him cope.

That morning two weeks ago, however, he had seen clearly how strange it was to think that way. He couldn’t put back in a bottle all that had spilled from him. All the tiny things that had made up a bigger picture of who he was, what he wanted, and what having real love of his own was really all about.

He had to go back and see that it was all real. And if so, to bring it all back.

At that moment in his bedroom, he had known that there were no epiphanies waiting for him beyond that. No press conferences to hold. So he had gone back. And he’d only had to arrive at Allison and Kay’s to know that he had made the right decision.

While in Johnston, a few things had happened. 

One of which was that he finally made himself look at his wedding invitation. 

No more avoiding it, no more pushing and pulling himself over it, he had just accepted it for what it was—a testament that the secret world he had with Sean could be penetrated.

It had been no easy admission. But the truth was that he had created room for someone else, in this case his mother, to move in and nearly take over.

Everything he had insisted to Sean he didn’t want happening, he had let happen.

But Anne had hugged and kissed him for it. And she had told him that a wedding invitation was not a marriage.

“Yes, you made a mistake. But that’s easily corrected. Whether you get just a day or a whole year to plan a wedding, it isn’t your marriage. You should start understanding that.”

They had been sitting in her living room having this conversation. The same one they had all sat in and watched the Super Bowl with him gripping Sean’s hand, unwilling to release him and give him the space to think about what was happening to their relationship. 

It had been a Midwestern winter evening, graying outside. With memories in addition to the Super Bowl flowing through him, memories comprised of snatches of _upstairs on the floor, back there in the kitchen, outside on the deck,_ the sought-for realizations that had brought him there had started to concretize. 

And after almost no question of whether he should, he haltingly began telling Anne and Wil what the last few months had been like. The realities of the name he carried. His parents’ wish, not to mention their ability, to determine both perception and actuality of their lives. Sean’s somewhat infuriating but seemingly inexhaustible patience, and his own increased feelings of being at a loss of control. He hadn’t expect answers to problems that were his own, but it had been wonderful just being able to voice thoughts he had suppressed for months.

“Sean has always made me feel like I’m going crazy,” he told them honestly. “Like I don’t know how to put one foot in front of the other and walk. But I think it’s taken me this long to realize that it’s because I can’t walk in a different direction from him. Sometimes I… guess I fear that he could somehow cope without me. But that I’d spend the rest of my life wondering how I got it so wrong.”

And he had watched Wil, very slightly, nod, and take Anne’s hand. He had then remembered Allison telling him how, upon her coming out, Wil had taken much too long to determine what was right in their family. How Wil’s alcoholic brother, then a regular part of the family, had fanned the flames, until it had nearly broken them all apart. Only one year removed from his own shortcomings, he understood too well.

It made him extremely glad he had come.

When it came to talking about the prenup, however, he had debated. But ultimately he had, since it had been his breaking point. Doubtless, it was the single reason they had offer to return with him to LA. Because it had been too clear from Anne’s darkened face and Wil’s deep, frequent breaths, that both had found the idea of others victimizing their son intolerable.

Strangely, really strangely, it had reminded him of being in grade school, a time when he intermittently used to get into trouble, for who knew what reason. It was probably when he had discovered boys and didn’t mind tagging along on their rule breaking adventures, for the chance of stealing a kiss. Whenever his escapades had in fact resulted in trouble, and potential detention, his father would show up to talk to the teachers. He remembered how none of the administrators would believe it, Alastair Wilson standing there, genuinely discussing whether his child needed to be disciplined or defended.

Those were memories he hadn’t accessed in decades. But as Anne and Wil subtly reacted to their son’s predicament, a son who at a different point in life they couldn’t have even understood, he allowed himself to question his own part in his family’s dynamics. To question continually denying their chances. 

Why was it so hard for him to forgive and trust? Why he was unwilling to find courage for something he professed to wanting? Those had been his starting point.

And then there had been the rest of his incredibly awesome trip, besides his unforgettable homecoming with Allison and family. He had gotten so much love and goodwill just walking around town, feeling that he could trace Johnston in his sleep. Like a place drawn inside him. It had been wild being hugged by everyone, having people call out, “Hey, Holden, how’re you liking the cold?” and being able to call back with all his heart that he was liking it just fine.

Seeing Michelle pregnant. She was going to only be a couple months due by the wedding, and over dinners they had discussed not just the wedding but how they were going to manage their respective guys because of her pregnancy. Davey had already turned into a walking hormone pill, swinging from mindless terror to strict disciplinarian when Michelle least needed the hassle, and he could imagine Sean in a similar state upon seeing her. God knew, he’d heard hilarious Allison pregnancy stories.

Anne had spent the rest of the trip spoiling him, telling him he was “a wonderful boy” for having come. And Wil had initiated him into den life, where they had spent evenings eating popcorn and watching late night TV. The unbelievable fact was that returning to Johnston cleared up a mess of an emotional understanding for him—that the harder he fell in love with Sean, the more he simply wanted to experience love. Even with his parents. Anger and confusion not withstanding. These people gave him courage. Their son gave him everything else.

So that by Monday night when he returned to LA, he knew he had brought back the person he went to find. And it had been easier than he would have ever imagined to sit on that balcony and talk about his vulnerabilities, and to gladly tell Sean that he had been right all along.

—

Arthur Railings had been expecting him. Arthur told him again that he could have brought the necessary staff to his office and that he needn’t have driven over, but told him again that it was fine.

It was after 8pm and he was on his last appointment of the day. Done here, he planned on going home to Sean, who was back swimming in Malibu, get held along with something sweet to eat, then switch off his brain from the past few weeks. In the morning he’d be on a long and guaranteed crazy road to marriage.

At the moment he entered Arthur’s office with a better sense of self than he had had in months. Arthur looked good, fresh in a crisp white shirt, like he had rejuvenated somewhere on vacation. He told him so, and Arthur carefully looked at him, perhaps remembering the very direct words he had left him with at their last meeting, before thanking him and telling him he could say the same for him.

He nodded, feeling a resurgence of confidence. The way he used to feel when he knew he was doing something right in his relationship. He was doing something right tonight.

He sat down and asked Arthur whether his mother had confirmed his visit and Arthur said she had. Arthur then rounded his desk and intercommed a staff member from the firm's tech security department. Most of Arthur’s cyber-security people were former NSA who never looked like he expected, and the woman who showed up fit the bill, looking more like she could have worked in Louise’s bakery in Johnston. Small and full of customer service smiles. All three of them sat around the center table.

There they oversaw the process of encrypting Sean’s files at the firm. Every last one of the results of his family’s investigations. He didn’t have a file at Railings. Neither did his father or mother. And neither would Sean.

He then watched as Arthur closed out the account. When they were done he and Arthur took encryption keys, and that was that.

*

Well after 9 pm, his intended walked through the patio doors of his home in Malibu. On his laptop, rubbing his thumb on his hot new ring, he was staring at but not really responding to emails. 

Actually, he had responded to a few from the players association office, having passed on Kara’s confirmed guests list. The tournament still didn’t have a venue for an event billed for a month’s time, the main concern Mark Hawthorne was emailing him. But Alastair was far from worried, so neither was he. He was passing on that sentiment to Mark, assuring him that they only needed to deliver the celebrities the team had promised the philanthropists. 

Beyond that, he was thinking that he’d shortly have no real time for anything besides giving approvals for flower arrangements. Not even time for reading uninteresting emails. And the prospect didn’t fill him with joy. So that when Holden stepped out, he was very ready for what would.

Holden looked vibrant and composed, as beautiful as ever in a charcoal suit and a surprisingly arousing grey tie. A composure which suffered a little static as Holden cast a quick, suspicious glance at the dark ocean, like it would rise up to the patio and engulf him without a watchful eye. Holden came and collapsed on the sofa, interrupting his own sigh to give him an interested though quizzical smile, at his helpless perusal. As if they were merely acquainted and it wasn’t clear exactly what he was staring at.

Holden closed his eyes, face turned up to the night sky, and looked so beautiful his heart could barely take it. He wished again he could have been with him this past week in Johnston, but he understood that whatever had happened there had gone down best without his presence, for whatever reason. The result being that his had his beautiful lover back, the confident man who made flaws a charming and irresistible part of human nature.

“Holy shit,” Holden whispered to the night sky. “We have a lot to do this summer.”

That they did.

But at the end lay an actual honeymoon.

Holden then opened his eyes, and for some reason locked them on a side table near him. He could see the thought processing through Holden’s mind. That if he took off his shoe and stretched his toe toward it, it would afford him some kind of visceral satisfaction. Instead Holden didn’t move and slid his eyes over to him.

Holden smiled. “I hear you judging me.”

He just snorted. And continued rubbing his ring, staring at his inbox. He should just probably close up shop on tonight’s efforts.

“Are you ever gonna take that off?”

He glanced at Holden.

Eyes still on the ring, Holden said, “Did I imagine my mother’s reaction?”

He slowly shook his head, refusing to go there in general.

“Not interested in that?” Holden asked.

“Not this offseason.”

“No,” Holden said flippantly. “Then what are you interested in this offseason?”

He slowly looked across at him.

Holden slowly, almost unconsciously it seemed, began to blush deeply.

And he could only stare, hardly able to breathe from just imagining the thoughts being processed over there.

Holden slowly ran his tongue across his lips, apparently thinking ahead. And all he could do was take his mind off it. It would happen when the time was right. 

Each day of this offseason, he would only think of how lucky he was. Not about Cecelia and whether she was dealing with his entry into her family. He would instead bear in mind how easily any number of small fears could have derailed his and Holden’s future. Fears from cold hard nights imagining heart aching things taking place in his absence. 

Whatever happened this summer, he would remember how much pressure Holden’s feelings for him could withstand and he would take his lesson always from that.

Clapping his hands on his thighs, Holden sighed and stood up. His scent came floating across the space to him, a faint, teasing douse of memories that made it a struggle to look higher than those long legs.

“I’m gonna get some blueberry yoghurt and some of those leftover cakes from this morning,” Holden said, talking mostly to himself. “And I’m gonna give that yoghurt cup the licking of its little life, after the morning we just had.” Holden then turned to him. “You want anything?”

He thoughts were stuck somewhere between a small yoghurt cup and images of freeing Holden from his suit, enjoying the promise of undoing all those meticulous vest buttons.

Reading him well enough, Holden smiled and flexed his finger toward the house. “A lot to do,” he quietly repeated, before reentering the house.

Moments later, he heard his sound system come on. Macy Gray, Adele, and Janis Joplin were skipped. The skipping then paused, and next thing he knew, his house was filled with the funky, sexy, rhythmic beat of Patti Austin with James Ingram in a duet. And by the time it got to Patti singing _Baby come to me, let me put my arms around you, this was meant to be,_ he had closed his laptop and was standing up.

When he reached the doors, Holden was gyrating his hips in the dark living room, the remote in one hand a small spoon in the other. He slid the doors closed behind him just as Holden began poking a finger toward the kitchen, specifically to the fridge he assumed. He got to the fridge, found some blueberry yogurt, ignoring the request for cake for now, and went into the living room for a warm, incredibly delicious embrace.

*


	3. Chapter 3

He spent the early morning at the office, possibly one of the earliest he had been in since taking over from his dad, working on his and Sean’s Soirée tasks. 

He had contacted Kate Hazeltine, telling her he couldn’t wait to see her, and asking her to have dinner with him. He was waiting for her response. But the reason he had come in so early was looking at him on his laptop. Based on a template from Marissa, and worked on nights in Sean’s bed in Johnston—accompanied by wondrous memories of climbing a two-story home and having possibly the best sex of his life—the tasklist was going to be their planning document for the summer.

Thirty pages in length, each page contained headings and subheadings covering every aspect of wedding planning from major to minor. Including what for him was the most exciting item on their agenda: the party they’d be having in Johnston. 

The reality was that many things, including his own erratic travel schedule, would probably scuttle the neatly entered dates. Miami, for instance, had been on the schedule for the week. But he’d returned to LA later than planned, and Sean was heading to New York in a couple days’ time for his interview with Howard Stern, so that already had had to be moved.

Still, it excited him just knowing it was near completion, an item he could cross off his own planning agenda with satisfaction.

Then there were Marissa’s questionnaires, one each for them fill out and possibly the single most urgent thing Soirée wanted from them currently. Their answers would generate a “profile” of their wedding including possible themes. A huge relief since that stuff was very much hanging. He’d emailed Sean his copy and Sean had emailed him back telling him to come to Malibu that night and get his answers in person. He was going to have to lay down the law about that. They were never going to get organized if Sean was planning on treating every instruction as a big excuse to flirt.

It wasn’t going to be the easiest thing, juggling wedding planning with the firm’s business over the summer, even with Soirée and his parents doing their part. But it certainly could be done. Accomplishing goals were simply about laying down the steps. Which was why he was pleased he was finally feeling comfortable enough to start.

—

And yet at day’s end, as he prepared to leave, Sean still hadn’t returned his questionnaire. Not that he had done his either, but, not the point.

So he and Sean were about to have a very interesting evening.

Tasklist complete, printed and bound and sitting next to his brief, he stood at his desk packing up for the day. Leaving early for the specific purpose of cornering Sean into a planning schedule. Apparently Michelle had not been speaking generally when she had chided Sean to make sure to help, though at the time he’d thought she had been. Now he wondered what Sean and Davey had put her through for her own wedding.

He was also pleased that he’d managed to get through a serious amount of work that day, though with the JP Morgan deal only half way to completion, every executive in the firm outside of finance had shown him what they thought of being in second place by nearly drowning him in reports.

Elliot, also, hadn’t had a change of heart about his desire to control how Sean got introduced to his…slightly more freewheeling social life. 

Returning from his lunch appointment that afternoon, he had stopped by Elliot’s office building and asked reception to call up. Upon Elliot’s secretary answering, he had asked for the phone and told her he was downstairs and could she put him through. Knowing they couldn’t involve his secretary in the drama, Elliot had taken the call. He’d then had to murmur an urgent but, he thought, firm sounding demand that he be let up so they could discuss pressing matters, including the issue of Geffen’s sure to be very bad for him party.

“Maybe later,” Elliot had causally said, and hung up.

He couldn’t even deal right now.

All that was left to do was take a quick look at his personal email before he headed out, an account he hadn’t checked probably since before leaving for Johnston. 

Between Facebook and text messages, his personal mail account had long been an abandoned wasteland of a handful of friends sending the random PDF of a restaurant menu or something once in a while. So as the sun began to set, turning his office a golden yellow and the sky outside a vast smudge of orange, a look he thought he might have actually seen recreated in one of Sean’s candlelight therapy evenings, he clicked open Apple Mail.

And stopped at the sight that greeted him. 

For some reason, he was looking at an inbox full of bolded, unread emails.

There had to be— The message counter read forty-two new messages. All overnight.

Leaving his brief for a moment, he leaned in, trying to understand what he was seeing. Maybe he had started getting Sean’s emails. Or… spam.

Without opening any, he switched over to Safari and logged into Facebook where any uptick in activity would be reflected. In the upper right corner of his account page the notification indicated tens of thousands of messages. Not unusual. He’d started getting dizzying amounts of messages since his first trip to Johnston. But even here, there seemed to have been an avalanche of new ones overnight.

Checking posts awaiting approval for posting to his timeline, however, instantly solved the mystery. The spike was all about the ring he had given Sean. Pictures from the fundraiser had popped up everywhere and posts were filled with flash-lit images of his hand holding open the box, the ring inside it. He though that was pretty cool.

None of which explained his personal emails.

Logging out of Facebook, he returned to Mail, and refusing to sit down, he stared blankly at the screen. 

There was something about the messages…

Then it hit him. But it didn’t make him stare any less.

The senders’ names were all men’s, each with a first and last, which was what had made it look like a spammer had gotten hold of his contacts and complied a random list of men’s names to entice him to click. Like profiles from a dating agency. Except that…every name was a guy he knew personally.

Looking at the messages stacked from top to bottom of the screen, it was as though every guy he had ever met, had dinner with, in probably…the last five years, had suddenly decided to email him overnight.

He started getting a feeling he didn’t care to place.

Sliding his finger across the trackpad, he clicked on the first one.

_Hello Holden:_

_I’m sure you’re as surprised to be getting this as I am to be sending it. I think the nondisclosure agreement I signed for your dad might have said something about not ever contacting you again. Haha, joking. Anyway, I know I’m a little late to the party, but I saw the pictures from Monday night and just wanted to congratulate you on your engagement. Hope you have a great wedding and I really hope he makes you happy. Save my number if you ever want to just get together for a drink._

_Best, Lowell._

Done reading, he was still staring at the screen. 

Then he tapped and read the next one. And a couple more. Each more or less said the same thing.

He stood there trying to imagine what the emails were all about. Hadn’t he gotten engaged _last_ year? And these were all men he ran into regularly at cocktails.

There was even one from a guy he was sure was straight. He opened it.

_Hey, congratulations dude. I hope this means we can still grab a cocktail. Ty_

Taylor, an executive at a Beverly Hills talent agency who happened to live in Bel Air. They’d stop for a chat whenever he went for a stroll with his dad in the neighborhood, when he used to do such things. The message was accompanied by a winking smiley face.

He had no idea what Taylor was winking at.

Slowly closing the laptop, he zipped up his brief. This wasn’t any kind of a priority at the moment.

*

Sean strolled into his condo before dinner time, his hair damp and spiky from his ocean adventures. And an air about him of having spent the day doing as little as possible. He would have lamented a life as part of Sean’s management. Sean had a duffle strapped across his chest which he adjusted as he checked him out through the kitchen entrance, on his way upstairs, probably to do even less. Gaze at ad agency art and maybe read through some contract provisions, and somehow still find the ability in all that dryness to maintain some kind of minimal level arousal and be ready when he walked in.

“Did you do the questionnaire?” he asked him.

“Have you had dinner?” Sean replied.

Stopped at the kitchen entrance, Sean’s eyes were on the counter, skipping over the bound reports he probably recognized by now as from the JP Morgan deal, and settling on the master task lists. One copy of which was open with a blue pen laying across it, the tasklist’s bolded headings easy to see. 

“What is that?” Sean asked, warily.

“I’m glad you asked. It’s related to the questionnaire. Did you do it?”

“I thought I’d take you out for dinner and we could do them together.”

At the open fridge door, where he had been contemplating a pre-dinner fruit snack, he turned and looked at Sean. “You want to go sit in a restaurant and talk about this stuff?”

“Yeah, I know just the place.”

“Fine, as long as we do them.” He indicated the printouts on the counter. “Because as you can see, we have a number of things to get through.”

Sean moved his eyes back to the tasklist. “Why does it have _subheadings?_ ”

Staring into the fridge, he pretended not to have heard undertone.

But Sean still didn’t move, and when he glanced again at him, Sean was just standing there looking at him. Sean then slowly slid the thumb he had on the duffle’s strap from his stomach down to his hip, and left it there. 

He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t even know what to think at the blatant come-on. That Sean thought real life was like a football game, where he could send a signal downfield and the receiver would act accordingly. In this case, shift all attention down to more potentially satisfying areas, he supposed.

“You’re still standing there,” he said.

“Can I at least get a how was your day kiss?”

The thumb was caressing the strap. It was like Sean was practicing telepathy. _It’s my offseason…_

“I’ll kiss you when we get to the restaurant.”

Sean looked again at the documents on the counter. “Are we getting married tomorrow or something?”

Stunned, he couldn’t help looking at Sean, whose offseason inertia continually mesmerized him. How would he ever reconcile this guy with the barking, lightening fast athlete he watched with fascination in highlight footage. Did Sean chose to conserve his energy or something? Was it some kind of professional athlete strategy he knew nothing about?

“No,” he said slowly. “We’re not getting married tomorrow. But neither are we bailing on wedding planning to go cruise the Malibu coast and do nothing but swim and have sex for the next three months.”

In the ensuing quiet, Sean stood there looking like he had just orgasmed and was trying to cover it. Trying and failing.

“It was just a hypothetical,” he heard himself saying, starting to feel kind of bad.

“Well, not to be a rep about it,” Sean slowly said. “But you did say part of your going to Johnston was so that we could…you know, get back on that horse. Sweetheart, I’m going crazy,” he added softly. “This morning in the shower, I had to stop myself from shaving clean down there just so I could relive a little bit of that magic. That’s where I am right now.”

He tightened his lips, laughing quietly at the bowl of raspberries he wasn’t going to bother with now. 

He shut the fridge door and walked back to counter. Now trying himself not to give any indication that his concentration had just slid down a well-oiled slope into Sean’s waiting arms.

He closed up the tasklists, his own already marked-up one, and Sean’s. Sean didn’t move.

When he looked over, Sean was standing there, under the unromantic white lights of the kitchen, in his T-shirt and jeans and his high-end, sponsor supplied footwear, blushing like a teenager. His soft blue eyes were latched on him.

Considering that he had lost entire months of his life in past years floating on the high that was this guy up in Malibu, he wasn’t about to let his heart, brain, his or Sean’s sex drive, make him drop the ball on this summer.

“Going…” he said softly.

Sean reluctantly shifted from the kitchen entrance. “Gimme a few, sweetheart.”

*

He’d thought Sean was taking him to Vibrato on Mulholland, Sean’s favorite old people restaurant. Where unless he did something between now and then, he was probably looking at spending many dinners of his sunset years. 

Sean took him instead to La Rosa in Benedict Canyon, a potential substitute. Signless, walled-off in an enclosed garden, so low-key a baby could have fallen asleep in its whispery “soundscape” atmosphere. It was one of Ben Hanan’s haunts, making him suspect that it might have been the site of Sean dinner’s with his dad a couple weeks ago. 

It was also David Geffen’s neighborhood, so he was a little antsy going in. Nothing would have been less comfortable than running into a very spirited Geffen just then.

But following the maitre’d and his romantically inclined guy around armchairs and past booths, and acknowledging a few quiet hellos from family friends, he realized that the chances of running into Geffen were pretty slim. He didn’t, however, miss how even those saying hello flicked their eyes to him only long enough to make it polite while their attention remained squarely on Sean’s moving form. 

Sean had changed out of his T-shirt and was in a jersey underneath and a body-hugging windbreaker. A particular one that made him want to shove his hands deep inside its pockets. The look only accentuated the raw sexuality that clung to Sean’s body at all times and added to him looking completely out of place in the placid restaurant.

If only this were Oliver’s Prime and he could pretend that the Forbes article had just come out.

 _But there’s your problem,_ he couldn’t help thinking. _You want to have it both ways._

Eyes forward, he followed both men out through the back doors.

The maitre’d had led them out back to private dining. They seemed to have a reservation, and were now standing in a wrought-ironed alcove on a flowered terrace. The terrace was perched on the sloped hillside, recessed enough to not make it seem like they were about to dine on the edge of a cliff, thankfully. Beyond was a twinkling LA skyline. 

Out in a wide open space, Sean was already taking deep breaths. Farther along the terrace were other diners, each section partitioned by flowered lattices.

The maitre’d informed them that their waiter would be right with them and left. He glanced across to see Sean already getting comfortable on the love seat.

Sean sat back, put his feet up on a nearby planter, caught his eye and gently patted the space next to him.

Smiling, he placed his leather bag containing the evening’s work on the table, then did as he was instructed.

Sean watched him taking his seat, a flush rising up his throat. And seeing it happen, in turn, was like getting a shot of aphrodisiac in his arm. He slid an arm along the back of the love seat, moving closer while Sean continued to give him his smitten look. Leaning in, he kissed him on the cheek, then in his beard, still cool from the ocean, again and again until they were both breathing hard. Slowly unzipping the windbreaker, and allowing himself some moments to savor the moment, he absorbed the feel of the fabric giving way as he went down.

Because despite what Sean might think, he did remember those nights of being apart, long and terrible nights, followed by days of so much hunger for him, he would have given too much to have him at will.

With the zipper sitting on Sean’s stomach, he slid his hand inside and rubbed circles on that his stomach, watching as Sean locked his jaw. He kissed him there, in his beard again, before making himself end this and pressing his lips to the warm ones beneath his. Sean sat as still as something carved, breathing shallowly. Pulling back, it was to find him staring, his warm breaths hitting his mouth.

“What?” he asked him quietly.

Sean furrowed his brow, as if he was having thoughts that merely confused him. “Nothing,” he said.

“Well, that look isn’t nothing.”

“I think you’re the most amazing thing in the world.”

He smiled, shaking his head. Then he sighed, attempting to get up. But Sean locked him in place, his hand on the arm still inside his windbreaker. He felt himself being slowly pulled in. In the next moment, Sean was nuzzling under his jaw. Like a huge puppy much too big to sitting on the couch.

“Sean, we’ve done enough of this,” he whispered. “We have to get down to business.”

“Down to business?” Sean whispered back. “Your words are confusing.”

He pulled his arm from Sean’s body, made it stretch across the table. 

“The faster we get this done, the faster we can get back home,” he said softly, pulling his bag over. “And the faster we get organized, the sooner it’ll allow me to refocus and get us both back on that certain horse. Get it?”

“One more kiss, sweetheart. We’re burning daylight in the offseason.”

He refused to even look at Sean at this point, thinking he might have to invent a drinking game involving the offseason. Either he got himself across the table or they could just go home right now.

*


	4. Chapter 4

They ordered a light dinner, preceded by seaweed salads and hot green teas. Holden didn’t seem interested in the food. A true rarity, and a possible warning sign that he had stumbled into dinner with a business executive and not some guy willing to indulge his needs tonight.

Their dining space was perfect, however. No complaints there. Holden had moved to the chair across with his Soirée binder full of…stuff, now nearly all extracted or spilling from the leather bag. 

Dressed in a maroon and white checkered shirt and a black sports jacket that had long since been removed and simply dropped in a heap beside him, Holden had his head lowered to binder’s contents, his concentration total. And unless he was badly mistaken, Holden had been making out with him while holding a pen.

Nevertheless, he was enjoying the view of him. Because he loved seeing him in the outdoors, be it against blue skies, grey ocean, or a vista of night lights.

The pen was presently being trailed down the left margin of a one-sheet checklist that had also come from the binder. A binder which apparently held lots more documents. All this was aside from the big wedding book sitting halfway out of the bag and bristling with tags. 

This evening was going to be rough.

The real cause for concern, though, was that serious looking printout with the bolded headings, currently at Holden’s elbow. A document he still couldn’t believe wasn’t something to do with Wilson Realty rather than wedding planning. But two copies on the kitchen counter meant he was about to find out intimately.

Still chilled in the best way from his long swim, he stroked the back of his ear, looking at Holden. Sometimes he wondered whether because he’d stuck by his no-sex rule on a first date, Holden sometimes liked to test his sexual control. The rule had peeved Holden that first night, had been the reason Holden didn’t take a single call from him for about a month after, so maybe it was just something Holden wanted to occasionally remind him of.

Or, this could just be his sex organ feeling persecuted at the moment.

Because frankly speaking, _it_ and he felt strongly that if they were paying Soirée to do everything, and them just to oversee, why _couldn’t_ they go cruising the coast for much of the next three months?

“Hey, sweetheart, you know what this place reminds me of?” he asked softly, leaning in.

Holden didn't immediately answer. After a few more moments, Holden asked, “What?” without not looking up.

“Being at Paula’s backyard that morning after you called. Remember? And I thought you looked cute then.”

Holden stared quietly at the checklist, seeming caught by unexpected memories. Then he gave their surroundings a perfunctory glance. 

“I guess it does,” Holden said, casting him a look. “And you looked like you’d just come down from heaven or something.”

“How do I look now?” he asked in faked surprise.

“Like you’d do just about anything to get out of this evening.”

Sighed, he sat back. “You’re not that far from the end zone there, buddy.”

“All right,” Holden said, done going over the checklist, now extracting the second copy of the bound printout from his bag. Setting it in front of him, Holden spun it to face him. It had a pen clipped to the front. “Let’s get started.”

—

This time last year, and in the years preceding, when it hadn’t even been a guarantee that they would be together, chances were they would have been doing something incredibly low-key and sexy. For example, teaching each other some new and completely useless skill. That first year they were together, Holden had taught him how to speed read, something he thought was easily the most pointless thing he had ever heard of. The year after had been his very first commitment to teach Holden how to decompress from a tense day, using aromatherapy of course, and Holden had spent the entire summer giving him the most condescending looks imaginable. 

He could make himself weak in the knees thinking up ways they could close out the world. In this offseason in which they were finally together for the very first time in every sense of the word.

This year, however, they were looking at…documents. 

Lots and lots of ‘em. All in the name of a ceremony.

Beneath the clear plastic front of his printout was his very own loose-leaf, one-sheet checklist. The same Holden’s pen had been lightly caressing by way of a double-check. It was a summary of their “April Thru June.” Pulling it from the printout’s front cover presented him with an up-close look at the document beneath, the juggernaut. Their “master tasklist.” Their entire summer up to their wedding, outlined.

It was _thirty pages_ in length. 

Double spaced, but still.

He stared at it and just had nothing to say.

Didn’t people get married everyday by just walking into the courthouse one afternoon? They could so easily fly Allison and Davey down for that. All kidding aside, how hot would it be for Holden to just leave the office in the afternoon, say during lunch hour, telling his secretary he’d be back before 2, and return a married man. That was the stuff of legend.

“All right,” Holden said. “So what we’re doing this evening is putting a framework around the wedding preparations. Following which we can organize accordingly. Our need to know is what we want, which of us is going to be handling certain aspects, and what we do in case of conflict or confusion. Which is to refer to this task list. You with me?”

He assumed he was nodding, because Holden resumed.

“To get started, we’re tackling two parts. First the questionnaires, which will generate our profile for Soirée. Tone, style, and color scheme. Our of this profile, Soirée will produce our custom binder. The second part is simply our side of things. Which are,” Holden said, probably at his efforts to not look pained. “Our rings, our tuxes, and our party in Johnston. That’s pretty much it, Sean. That’s all we have to do. The rest is just overseeing Marissa.”

He was maintaining his nod. But the tasklist was just a _summary_ of reality. He’d seen the back of that Soirée wedding book, and he couldn’t imagine that a family like Holden’s reserved a company like Soirée just to get a summary of what the company could offer.

“What’d you got in there?” he asked, indicating the binder that had apparently supplanted him in his own relationship. “If that’s not our binder.”

“This is just generic stuff from Soirée. Brochures, catalogs, so on. Okay, listen to me, Sean. Everything’s going to be easy as long as we stick to the ground rules.”

“Which are?”

“One, we get back to Marissa in a timely manner. Meaning, when we’re up and running, and this is important, Sean, we respond to her emails within a twenty-four hour period. No waiting for me to come home first.”

Try as he might, he wasn’t able to stop the slight rebellion that rose in him. If they couldn’t do this stuff together, then where was the fun. Not necessarily the small details, but the interesting stuff.

“I’ll respond in a timely manner,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I’ve seen your inbox and you have three thousand unread emails.”

“Well— they’re unread for a reason.”

“Which is fine. But go ahead and create a folder for Marissa and when you do get an email from her, check it and respond. Don’t make a face and go for a swim instead.”

“Well, that’s totally counterproductive. Swimming helps me think.”

“What does it help you think about, Sean?”

Lowering the printout, he leaned across the table. Holden lifted his pen and halted his words. 

He gave Holden a lopsided grin and picked up the printout.

“Ground rule number two,” Holden said. “We make sure that all contracts and paperwork are signed. This simplifies things for the future. We can start with that. Please turn to the back of your printout. There you’ll find a pocket containing three documents in need of your signature.”

He looked back there and found the documents. An authorization to Soirée, a release to same, and a statement from him personally to Johnston’s city council expressing his appreciation for how awesome a city council they were for working with him on his wedding arrangements.

“Read over and sign all three, please, then put a checkmark next to the item’s number on the checklist.”

He mentally closed his eyes for a moment. “Have you read ‘em?” he asked.

Holden nodded.

Picking up his pen, he slid free the documents. Whatever the paperwork said, he’d do. It would take a lot less effort than trying to understand what was happening to him. He set them out and signed all three.

“Thank you, Sean.”

“You’re welcome, Holden Wilson.” 

Then he flipped back to the checklist at the front. Under the appropriate _sub-_ heading, he found: _sign Soirée authorization; sign Soirée release; approve statement of intent to Johnston city council._ He checked all three.

“Wedding planning seems a lot like studying for midterms,” he remarked. “If you were into that kind of thing.”

There was a long, soft silence, on which the low conversations of other diners could be heard. When he peeked, Holden had picked up his tea, encased in a lovely bronze Russian glassholder, and had hid his amused blue eyes behind it.

“Really?” Holden said.

“Yeah. Remember what you said to me at my parents house?” he asked him quietly. “That night after our first dinner with them. What’d you say again?”

Somehow managing to composedly sip his tea, Holden said, “I remember correctly. I said, Sean, we should focus on getting through this evening.”

“That’s what you said?”

“Yes,” Holden said. Then added softly, “Mister, I can’t fuck right now, I’ve got too much on my mind.”

Thinking he had misheard, he stopped and raised his eyes to Holden.

Holden continued blowing softly on his tea. “The look on your face was priceless,” Holden quietly said. “Not unlike now.”

—

He’d suspected that Sean’s biggest challenge for the summer would be pretending enthusiasm for a big wedding. After all, how could it compare to the joys of poring over video footage of opponent games. Of studying diagrammed play books, encyclopedias of them, for the perfect combination of moves to achieve _yards._ Or, pinnacle of pinnacles, meticulosity plotting out offensive strategies that left grown men wet-eyed and gibbering.

What Sean didn’t know was that in anticipation of his wedding planning angst, he’d already spoken to Allison and Davey, and that between the three of them they had everything in hand. Sean could throw all the shade he wanted, the man was about to have a fantastic summer nonetheless.

“So these questionnaires,” Sean now asked, which he was having them get to first, before going over their details.

Seated forward on his lonesome love seat, food barely eaten, Sean was staring attentively at the document. “They’re going to tell Soirée the type of wedding we want?”

“Them and us, truthfully. And our _theme_ especially. Which I finally read the explanation for in one of her emails, by the way. It means something like the road the couple traveled to reach marriage. I guess it’s their way of making each wedding unique.”

The questionnaire was divided into different sections, though he was starting from the back. The first page harboring selections of all manner of things, in categories like “modern” and “rustic” and “French period.” The tones were categories like, “fun & modern,” “rustic & low-key,” “upscale & elegant,” and “old world romantic.”

He assumed their profile would eliminate most of these options. He didn’t think Soiree would parse his own answers and come up with “rustic & romantic.”

“Frankly, I’m relieved this stuff makes sense,” he said. “‘Cause when I read the explanation for a theme, I thought, great. Our wedding is going to be strewn all around with giant craggy rocks. That’s just great.”

Sean was barely paying attention to what he was saying. The questionnaire seemed to be the entire world now, seemingly having opened up a door Sean hadn’t previously considered. He guessed it was those categories. He was pretty sure that were he not looking, Sean would be drawing Xs and Os around “old world romantic.”

“You can be completely honest with your answers, by the way,” he told him. “They know how to be creative with differing needs.”

But Sean was still not with him.

Reaching forward, he tapped his pen to the back of the sheet. “Go ahead and write in the space reserved for other comment that you’d really just like to get married on the beach at sunset, just me and you. Or was it in a cabin in the mountains.”

“The cabin is the honeymoon part.”

“Well, you should probably write that down anyway, so they can get an idea of how crazy you are.”

Sean snorted to himself, still staring at the document. But now he had a totally devilish look on his face, likely enjoying thoughts of a chaotic life in a cabin outside of civilization more than a normal person should.

Watching him tightened his stomach so much he could barely swallow his seaweed salad. If Sean was remembering the morning in Paula’s backyard, he was recalling the night he showed up at Spago’s last summer, unexpectedly and emotionally slammed from having no clue whatsoever of how deep feelings of love ran. The love he held for his father and for the man he had fallen for. How completely without defense he had been on both fronts. Walked into the presence of one and stupidly spilled his guts, and stumbled back— _so_ fast, could not have gotten there fast enough—into the arms of the other when things suddenly became unrecognizably frightening. Whereas a minute before he would have sworn that they had been in a fight.

A year ago, he didn’t recognize the feeling of sitting across restaurant tables and looking at a man whom he wanted not much more than to sleep with, and feeling inexplicably dizzy. No clue what was happening to him. Unaware he had fallen in love.

A year later, he was kind of speechless that he was about to marry him.

Pen in hand, Sean raised curious eyes to him. “What’re you writing?”

He brought his arm back and resumed writing in his.

“I’m writing that I’d like to be able to look at our wedding photos at a family get together years from now and not cringe.”

Sean was quiet. “Oh,” he said. “What you’re saying is that you don’t want me and Davey to dunk you in the champagne pool. It’s normally just water, but I’m assuming you rich people fill it with champagne. Take off your custom made Italian shoes, jump in wearing your Versace suits and gowns.”

He was still writing as Sean’s words sank in, hesitating him a little. Not because of Sean’s apparent perception that people behaved like they lived in a reality show, or in the Hamptons, but because Sean had mentioned Davey in the mix. Had he never met Davey, or seen Sean get ambushed and dumped with ice water at the Super Bowl cookout, he might have assumed that Sean was joking. But now he began wondering whether he should be planning for contingencies.

Sean smirked at his worried flicker at him, before finally, at last, Sean started filling out the questionnaire.

“So what’d you think of the venue,” Sean asked almost immediately.

Sean’s eyes had roamed to the brochures spilling across the table from the binder. Brochures he’d been sifting through for information while filling his questionnaire. 

“I think it’s absurd. But I know you like it.”

“Why do you think it’s absurd?’

“Because it’s a palace.”

“A palace originally built as a love nest by a Spanish prince for his bride. Who was the love of his life. He wanted a place where they could be away from the world, walk the gardens and watch the sunsets together. They had a bunch of unruly kids, like, twelve of them, and later on in life, when they got older, they turned the place into a tourist destination especially for lovers.”

He had to switch mental gears to even process what Sean was saying. Still it didn’t sound familiar at all. Sighting the one for the Spain venue, he slowly turned it toward him. Like the rest of the brochures, it was all new stuff he had received from Soirée while in Johnston, and he had scanned them all. Wherever Sean was getting his information, he didn’t think it was from reading the ones he had. Still… 

Quickly skimming the highlighted attractions on the front cover—situated on a river, originally built as a fortress, formerly a military prison—he saw nothing about an original love nest…

“True story,” Sean said softly.

He looked patiently at Sean, who boldly met his gaze and batted his lashes at him. Sean then returned to his questionnaire.

But it was then that it really, truly sank in with him that he was marrying, and about to take on responsibility for maintaining, a princess. 

“We need to visit the location and see that it’s okay for our needs,” he told Sean, way of explanation.

“I know,” Sean said quietly.

“Because it might look great on paper, but it might actually just be a collection of moldy stone walls,” he continued, knowing the chances of that were zero. If his dad had fought to acquire the property against the Intercontinental Group, it was certainly worth having.

“I get it,” Sean replied.

But as he gave the brochure one last skim before sliding it back into the binder, he was knew now that whenever they did start off to see the potential venues, there would have to be additional stay after inspection. With flowers and candles for his princess.

Stealing a look under his lashes, he found him head down to the questionnaire, filling in answers with a sudden amount of interest for a guy who supposedly wasn’t interested at all.

—

“Okay, let’s get on our side,” Holden said. “Tuxes.”

Questionnaires, authorizations, and sundry addressed, he knew Holden saw both success and progress, relief to get to solving problems after months of stagnation. Despite his griping, he was pleased about that. After months of seeing Holden with a permanent frown in his brow, he could sit here all night and watch him smile and look like his only problem in the world was a big-wedding averse fiancé.

Feeling very good about that, he got a little more comfortable in his love seat, and stopped himself from smiling when Holden caught his breath and watched him adjust position like they were in bed. Even if they didn’t get lots of chances to go out into the lovely blue together, he just had to remember his promise to himself that he would enjoy every moment of this summer with him.

“You need to get going on your tux,” Holden repeated, when he hadn’t responded.

“Yeah…”

“As soon as possible, Sean. I’ve never even heard you refer to it.”

“Sweetheart, I was best man at Davey’s wedding, and both of us were in Allison’s wedding party. A nice tux is a nice tux, no big deal. Shouldn’t take Davey and me months to find one.”

“It takes an absolute minimum of five weeks for proper fitting alone. Prior to which, you need time just to discover the styles that are right for you. Mind you, this is after we’ve settled on the overall look of the ceremony, color schemes and so on. Months is exactly right.”

“Color schemes? Aren’t we just getting black ones?”

“Not necessarily. And I saw the pictures of you and Davey from Allison’s wedding. We’re not wearing matching tuxes, and you and Davey better not plan on it either.”

“Of course we’re not. We didn’t for his wedding, remember?”

“That you have to remind anyone of something like that is disturbing.”

“Besides, we looked awesome at Allison’s wedding,” he said, grinning, knowing fully well that a decade ago he and Davey had looked like the giddy twenty-somethings with zero taste they’d been. “Everyone told us so.”

Holden refused to take the bait, instead pulling wedding attire brochures from the binder and sliding them over. He took them, flipping through. And was actually surprised at how good it all looked, all the browns and blues and navies. How romantic those soft colors were… 

“Checkmark that you’ve picked up the brochures, please.”

Chastened, he did so.

—

“You’re not gonna tell me what the party at my folks’ is all about?”

“It’s just gonna be a big party that’s open to the town,” Holden said, shrugging, evasively.

“What, like a Super Bowl party?”

“Yeah…” Holden said, drawing out the word. “I guess.”

Then, while he tried to understand what might be unfolding right now, Holden looked down at his copy of the master tasklist, which he was meticulously marking up, and wrinkled his nose. “Not really,” he then said.

“Wait, not really like a Super Bowl party?”

“It’s nothing like a Super Bowl party.”

He stared at Holden, out of angles to poke. They had been going at this party issue for probably a full minute.

“You don’t like surprises or something?” Holden asked, polishing off a plate of sashimi. “You stuck a diamond engagement ring in a box of cereal for me to discover. I think you like surprises.”

He didn’t even know what to think.

Holden set down his fork and looked at his tasklist.

At a point during their dinner, he had reached across and inked in “engagement photos,” where a time to schedule engagement photos should chronologically be. He’d seen it in the wedding book.

He looked forward to when Holden would notice it.

—

“You got a different colored pen?” he asked Holden. 

Not because he was out of his mind enough to need multiple colored pens to markup this old-school playbook of a tasklist, but because at one point he had seen Holden poke into his leather bag to grab himself some tab highlighter thing, and unless he was high, Holden had a _pack_ of multi-colored pens in there. He’d understand if it were a pack of condoms and this was four years ago. But Holden lifted the opening of the bag and there was the proof that the pack was of colored pens, nothing else.

He took the green pen Holden proffered and set it beside his tasklist, with no intention of ever touching it again.

—

“You have written in _engagement photos,_ ” Holden said.

He smiled, glad they had finally gotten to the good parts.

“What does that mean?” Holden asked.

“It means engagement photos.”

Holden didn’t immediately respond, seemingly parsing a wide range of possibilities to the simple answer. Then he said, “I don’t think so.”

He waited.

“I can’t see that coming out well at all. Actually, I’ve never seen engagement photos that didn’t seem…weird.”

“As in?”

“You know. Weird.”

Pen twirling nervously in hand, it flew from Holden’s hand and went clattering across the table. 

It landed on the floor.

Slowly, he bent over and retrieved it. 

Not having missed Holden’s sudden change in demeanor at the mention of the photos, he had prepared himself for this.

Holden locked self-conscious eyes on him as he briefly disappeared from view, quickly looking away as he straightened. 

No surprises there, really. He hadn’t missed how, at the start of their evening, Holden had reacted uncomfortably to the idea that their setting reminded him of Paula’s backyard. Holden wasn’t worried about anyone else’s pictures, it was whether theirs would show authenticity.

So he asked, “You mean weird like one of the couple seems self-conscious about being in the pictures?”

Holden licked his lower lip. “Maybe.”

He handed over the pen. Holden took it, then stared, expectantly, at him.

“Well,” he said, knowing he had Holden’s rapt attention. “I’ve seen plenty that moved me. Michelle and Davey’s would melt your heart, and Kay and Allison did an erotically themed one.”

Holden blinked. “What? A what?”

“An erotically themed set. _I’ve_ never seen ‘em, but Michelle says they’re amazing. It’s like the moment before you step out on the field for the biggest game of your life. Of course you mark that moment. And you definitely want pictures.”

Holden appeared to have stopped breathing, and his eyes seemed to be swimming in possibilities. He wouldn’t have thrown away a dollar betting on what Holden was probably envisioning right then.

Despite his determination to stay focused, warmth began spreading uncontrollably in his groin. Like he had spilled something on himself. 

When he tried to look at his printout, the letters blurred, until he stopped altogether. Watching Holden clearly dip, even ever so slightly, into the world of his sexual fantasy, he felt like he was being drugged. Sometimes it was hard to believe he hadn’t _imagined_ all of that. Holden could take him home right now, take him up to his bedroom. Whisper down to him in bed, _Take off your shirt. Now… unzip your pants.... No, wait, take your shoes off first. Wait, d-do you have your training pants here with you? You do? Okay, let’s get you nice and clean so we can get you in those… Do you like playing with me, quarterback?_

God almighty. He would give up a day of his life to get one hour of that side of Holden back.

“Let’s just put a pin in that one,” Holden said softly.

He marked up in agreement.

—

They assigned who would be responsible for overseeing which set of parents.

“I’m taking care of Anne and Wil,” Holden said. “So good luck with Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.”

He smirked, then realized that once again, and really, continually, he had forgotten that Beau was actually currently married to Alastair. Then he was about to make a joke about which Mrs. Wilson, there being two, before realizing that now might not be the time. And also that Holden had mentioned that Alastair didn’t give his new wives his name. Maybe based on the prenup Cecelia and Alastair had signed.

After which he just wanted more sushi.

—

Holden didn’t seem particularly interested in their rings. Halfheartedly sifting through the pile of brochures on the table, it was as if he couldn’t quite remember what he was supposed to be looking for.

As nuts as that was. It was the single most important thing in the ceremony. 

He was warm just thinking about those rings.

They would look like a dream come true sitting beneath their engagement rings. Like his parents, and Kay and Allison’s. Michelle wore just her wedding ring, and Davey hadn’t gotten one for his engagement.

“You wanna handle?” Holden finally asked, unenthusiastically.

“Very much.”

“It’s yours.”

—

“Wedding exercises,” he pointed out, not seeing the item and not having noted it either. “You forgot to put those on there.”

Holden first trailed the checklist, then flipped a couple pages of the tasklist, before raising a confused look to him. “Sorry, what?”

“Wedding exercises.”

“What?” Holden repeated, an even more baffled expression on his face.

And somehow, he wasn’t laughing.

“Wedding exercises,” he said. “You know, we schedule a time, hit it hard for a couple hours. We don’t need a trainer, I’ll handle it. It could just be a run, but iron’d be good. That way, come wedding and honeymoon, we’re in great shape and we got stamina to spare.”

Holden kept staring at him, like his words were coming out in a foreign language.

And he began laughing, unable to control himself with Holden so utterly lost. Holden closed his eyes and shook his head, an acknowledgment that his joke had been funny. Which only made him laugh even more, because he absolutely was not kidding. Smiling, he dabbed his eyes and kept his mouth shut.

“Where was I?”

He didn’t offer any hints.

—

“What about dance lessons?” he asked. “What’re we doing about those?”

Holden stopped, giving the tasklist a surprised stare, like surprised he hadn’t thought about it.

“Not the kind you do, sweetheart. Ballroom dancing is what I mean.” 

“We could do the kind I do.”

He shook his head, so gone over this guy. 

“You shouldn’t ever plan on anyone seeing that, by the way.”

“Because it’s so awesome?”

He could only shake his head.

“Look at you blushing,” Holden said.

“Put that in there before we forget we’re supposed to take lessons.” 

“Oh, I’m putting it in,” Holden said. “But we’re getting someone with experience in hip movement.”

— 

And then, about to inquire about it, he realized that the single most important thing of the summer was missing from the tasklist.

“Nothing here about our honeymoon.”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

Holden had replied immediately.

And so he suspected what the omission was all about.

“No water destinations?” he guessed.

Wrinkling his nose, half in revulsion, half in distress, Holden said, “There’s plenty of time to pick a spot.”

“On Earth? Because it’ll probably be near water. How ‘bout we talk about curing you before then?”

Holden stiffened and didn’t reply. 

After flipping back to the first page, he simply said, “We’ll talk about honeymoon destinations next time.”

Then Holden closed his master tasklist, and that seemed to be it.

He as still catching up on check marking his.

“Wow,” he said. “I can’t believe we’re done. And we didn’t even get to stock options and employee benefits.”

“Laugh all you want, but you’ll be thanking me when this is all over.”

“Holden,” he said honestly, ticking away. “ _Thanking you_ is the least I’m planning to do to you when this is over.”

There was a beat of silence, then Holden quietly started laughing.

“Well, go easy on me, tiger,” Holden said in low tones. “I don’t want to get pregnant before it’s all over. I still have a career to manage.”

“Wait a minute, I didn’t tell you? I don’t want you working anymore once we’re married. You’re mine now and I take care of my own.”

He’d expected a comeback. 

When it didn’t come, he looked up to find Holden smiling down adorably, _shyly,_ at his closed tasklist.

It stunned him. But only for the time it took to remember what he had said to Holden. About this dinner reminding him of their morning at Paula’s. 

Amazing, astonishingly, they had made it this far. They had kept their promises to each other.

Holden threw him a look, and it was so full of humility, he lost his place on the damned tasklist. 

—

It was as they were preparing to leave, Sean looking tremendously relieved, that something happened.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he had been worrying that something might all evening, that the emails from that afternoon had been on his mind. And it wasn’t anything bad. Just a… tone. Like setting a stage.

Soirée’s binder packed up, he had been grabbing his leather bag when the maitre’d appeared with a note. The square piece of paper had the restaurant’s logo across the top, a means by which the restaurant informed private dining guests that someone in the main room wished to send a greeting.

While Sean lounged in his seat, only letting his eyes follow the passing of the note, he took the note. He looked at it and nearly paled— he probably did—when he saw the name signed there. It was... well, it was a friend.

A guy he had never dated, had only ever worked with on a Mideast deal from a year or so ago. 

And it was normal that Eddie would want to say…hello to his fiancé…if he had seen them in the dining room. Where he alone, he wouldn’t have hesitated to have him over.

Instead, he was staring at the note. Not at Sean or at the maitre’d, and wishing that Eddie would have at least been straight. He had no doubt at all that spending a life till last year in the closet had honed Sean’s sexual orientation detector skills to max levels, and so he thought fast. If he said no, the worst that could happen would be that Eddie might get a little offended and maybe curious as to why. 

Whereas he couldn’t say yes Eddie coming over, into an untested scenario. He’d be nuts.

Handing back the note, and hoping he hadn’t taken longer than should be normal to skim a note, he shook his head at the maitre’d, who acknowledged and left. He resumed slotting the binder into his leather bag.

When he snuck a peek under his lashes across the table, Sean was pulling his legs from the planter and turning to grab his jacket. Sean said nothing at all.

*

The following morning Marissa sent them their wedding profile. 

It felt momentous, holding the two-paragraph half-page description of what the professional planners and their software had deduced about their wedding from their answers.

He smiled reading it. If nothing else, it was a perfect summary of his and his soft-hearted guy’s approaches to a relationship, captured on expensive paper and in pretty Palatino typeface.

According to the profile, they wanted an elegant, upscale party-to-remember—that was him; with plenty of small, heartwarming moments: Sean’s contribution. Their colors were “morning wheat & cornflower blue”.

Frowning at the last sentence, he wondered where that had come from. It sounded more like ad copy for breakfast cereal, with a side of sweetener, than a wedding ceremony. Soirée’s binder had to have samples he could take a look at. And at the bottom of the letter, Marissa had added a congratulatory note asking that he communicate as soon as possible for an appointment.

He set the letter down and prepared to send her an email, when a text message loudly broke into the quiet.

Thinking— _hoping_ it was Elliot, he checked it. 

It was Eddie. Eddie from last night.

_Didn’t mean to intrude._

Not wanting or needing to think about it, he picked up the phone and replied that it hadn’t been a problem, that the discussion had been sensitive and nothing more. He hadn’t put the phone down when Eddie replied.

 _Np._ Accompanied by a smile.

He set down the phone. Eddie was a nice guy. Last night he had dodged a bullet. 

But he had also started to accept that he was running out of time.

*


	5. Chapter 5

He waited until late afternoon, after Sean had left for New York, before sending Elliot a text about what had happened at La Rosa, fully expecting an immediate callback. Because no matter what else was going on, he’d never known Elliot to withstand wanting dirty details if there were any to be had.

So he waited inside their conference room after it had emptied out, already anticipating the text asking for a quick sandwich meet. It would also be the perfect launching point for starting to deal with the summer. 

But instead of a response, all he got was Elliot’s template reply. “Unable to talk. Pls send text.”

Speechless, he stared at the words on the screen. What was he missing here? Elliot wasn’t the grudge type. And Elliot had admitted he understood the circumstances, knew of course he’d introduce him to Sean as soon as the moment was right. So what _was_ this? Sean’s absence was the psychological space he needed to discuss a number of things. He tapped Elliot’s number and waited while it rang. And rang.

Elliot didn’t answer.

He lowered the phone. He was in trouble with his social life.

The good news though was that Kate had responded to his message and they were having dinner tonight. He could at least feel like he was reaching a true conclusion to his decision to travel to Johnston. In spite of the nagging feeling Elliot was now leaving him with, he was feeling thrilled about his evening.

*

By Thursday evening, at the airport waiting for his flight, he was still recovering from his wedding planning dinner with Holden. 

Lost in a fog of too much information as he was, all last night had left him with was the realization that you couldn’t rush a nerd. Also that he might not be fully grasping what he was facing with a society wedding. He really needed to get Davey horn.

Actually, that hadn’t been all last night had left him with. There’d been that other part of the evening he hadn’t found charming at all.

Shaving that morning, he’d wondered whether he’d imagine the passing of the note. Especially the way Holden had intentionally blanked upon reading it, the biggest giveaway when Holden didn’t want to draw attention to something uncomfortable.

But it wasn’t until he was sitting inside the Virgin America terminal reading league news and, yes, responding to emails, that it occurred to him to connect the strange note to anything else.

Tuesday evening after his parents had gotten back into Johnston, Allison had sent him a text congratulating him on Holden having given him a ring. Apparently, the internet had found out and had pictures to prove it. Her text had alerted him to it, saying simply, _Congratulations, kiddo,_ with an accompanying image. Enlarging it had filled his phone with a high resolution image of the diamond band, still in the box, being held open by Holden’s hand. 

What actually crossed his mind at the time was how good these camera phones had become and whether he would ever really get used to living life in their constant high resolution sights. He’d texted her back a thanks, grateful that she especially understood what it meant to get it. A feeling that had pushed Cecelia’s reaction down to the low position it belonged. It hadn’t crossed his mind to look at the web.

For some reason, last night’s note moment made it all come back.

Why he was connecting the two wasn’t clear even to him, but he clicked open his web browser anyway, wanting to see what was being said online about the ring.

A warning bell was going off in his head, alerting him to all the other times he’d felt harangued by what was being said on the internet since his coming out. Life in the spotlight wasn’t his for the enjoying. But he opened it anyway.

He searched “Holden’s ring,” with the very first result being a gossip site. He clicked. The link took him directly to a page with a blaring headline, in big bold caps: 

_HOLDEN GIVES SEAN A RING: JUST THREE MONTHS TO THE WEDDING! WHY THE LONG WAIT?!_

He stared at the headline. For much, much longer than he should have. And the longer he did, the easier the words reduced themselves until they fit neatly into a note whose contents he was struggling not to imagine.

Then, deciding he wasn’t going to do this, he closed the page. 

The airline started announcing boarding and he closed the laptop and picked up his bag.

—

Inside his hotel room at the Plaza Hotel in New York, he looked over his schedule. It had him being done with his interviews by 4pm tomorrow, pretty good prospects for a relaxed weekend. Then he checked in with Kara, whose first words upon answering the call were, “Please don’t back out on the publishers.”

She was talking about a lunch meeting she’d finally gotten to schedule with Harper Collins. One she’d been trying to make happen since Valentine’s Day of last year. She seemed convinced it was vital for his career long term, to tell “his side of things.”

Truthfully, until he and Davey talked at Dahl’s while cookout shopping, he’d been firmly of the belief that books were for coaches and team owners. But telling Davey what it had been like for him in the league had made him rethink.

“It’s not to put any kind of pressure on you,” Kara was saying. “It’s just to get a sense of what publishing a book is all about.”

“Not a problem, Kara,” he assured her. “I’ll see it through.”

“Great. You won’t regret it. Paula’s going to be tuning into the ESPN one, so please to make sure to talk about the 49ers defense.”

He took a breath, wondering why he was still surprised that Paula was still on this. She felt she could singlehandedly change the course of Chargers’ defensive strategy, by hinting at all turns that the team’s defense was the reason he didn’t have a Super Bowl ring.

It was what agents were for, he supposed.

“I don’t need it picked up and reported all over the place that I’m undermining the coaches, Kar,” he said. “It’s the offseason and I need a break.”

“It’ll come up,” she said briskly, sounding firm. “So if it does, you should feel free to respond honestly.”

He held back another sigh and told her he was fine with that.

“Stern should be fun, though. Remember, with him you can always sub a joke for an answer. So have fun!”

He told her he would, and disconnected.

He was due later for a catchup dinner with some buddies here in the East Coast, but he used the time before he had to jump into the shower to flag down Allison on Skype. 

Ten minutes of hang time after she told him she was available, she was seated at her computer desk with a yearly planner open beside her.

And within minutes of conversation, he knew this entire summer was going to be nothing but one long training camp.

“—which is why you need to call Tailgate as soon as possible,” Allison was soon saying, _instructing,_ while scribbling away in the planner. “Thats not a joke about your tuxes. It’s not like mine and Kay’s wedding. The whole world wasn’t invited and we weren’t going to end up on the cover of Vanity Fair.”

Stifling a sigh, he massaged the back of his ear, looked out at the bright lights of the city.

“Are you listening, Sean?”

“Yeah…”

When they went on their honeymoon, he’d make sure that he left his cell phone and laptop in LA. Holden would have to take his, because as much as he’d love to make an argument against it, Holden couldn’t be unavailable from work for three weeks. But he planned on insisting on a separate place for Holden to do his work. Because this was a once in a lifetime thing. So if he heard a cell phone ringing anywhere, he’d put a touchdown in the ocean. 

And there’d be water wherever they were going. Water and a beach that went on forever. And warm, sultry nights… And while they were at it, there should probably a verandah with a daybed, one you could lie on sweating in the early evening. 

He probably also needed to order a batch of neroli and rose essence massage oils… although if they were anywhere in the South Pacific, he’d been reading all about kukui nut oil and the effect it had on the senses…

“Sean, are you listening?”

“Yup.”

Three weeks in the South Pacific with the hottest man in the world… _This_ was actually his life. So he really was the luckiest guy alive.

“—opening your overnighted releases,” Allison was saying. “The council was _beside_ itself. As I’m sure you can imagine. Especially Councilwoman Delray. Remember her?”

“Jesus, is that a trick question? My whole life has been geared towards satisfying her political aims these days. And I thought reps were pushy. This whole Johnston thing is outta control. All because she cornered Holden while we were there. Talk about a meeting of the minds.”

Allison was laughing. “Yeah.. it’s gonna be awesome though. Iowa Symphony playing at your wedding, Johnston High doing a little presentation, Louise baking? Holden’s a genius.”

He turned back to the monitor and started at her. “What?”

“Plus, let’s be honest, the town’s probably gonna make more money the weekend of the party than from Super Bowl and your whole coming out combined.”

Still trying to determine whether he’d heard all the other stuff right, about Louise and his old high school, he put all that aside and asked her what exactly was being planning with the party.

She gave him her smug, big sister smile. “Ask Holden.”

This was crazy. Dreading an answer, he frowned at her. “Am I gonna be doing a presentation or something?”

“It’s a _party,_ she laughed. “By the way, I take it the meeting with the Wilsons went well? Mom and dad are mum about it.”

“As well as could be expected.”

“That’s good. I haven’t seen them yet, but ever since Holden’s return they’d been acting like back when you first got drafted into the league. Remember how they went all stoic and walked around trying not to look like they’d just won the state lottery?”

He chuckled.

“Anyway, let’s just be grateful that part’s over. So, venue. You guys planning on getting one soon? Or is there one and Holden’s family is just keeping it secret?”

“There is one actually, and it’s beautiful. Holden thinks it’s over the top, is all.”

“What’s over the top about a wedding venue?”

“It’s a palace in Europe.”

Allison stopped notating in her planner and looked up at him. He couldn’t tell if she was surprised or appalled.

“Don’t _tell_ me it’s the one in France… Versailles?”

“God, no. Not that bad. But it is a palace. And the thought alone makes Holden gag. He’s got a couple other places in mind though, and they’re all pretty spectacular. So add to all that the LA Philharmonic also playing at our wedding, and a famous designer making our wedding favors, plus a couple of international chefs making about a thousand course meals and desserts, and Vanity Fair running around acting like we’re the fucking Kennedys, this wedding is basically the goddamned Pro Bowl, Allison.”

She was laughing.

“Allison,” he said. “Why’re there f-forty— th— Four hundred and…” He couldn’t fucking remember.

“Three hundred and eighty-five confirmed at last count,” she said with a smile.

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because each of the Wilsons invited fifty people,” she sympathetically told him, even though he knew it. “And each invitation comes with a plus one. Your low numbers is what’s keeping it from inching to the original four-fifty-two.”

And a few of the guests attributed to him, like the NFL commissioner and some celebrities, had actually been Holden’s doing.

It was her continued smiling that made him realize he still had a frown on his face which was threatening to become etched on.

“Holden’s totally gonna be a bridezilla, isn’t he?”

“There is no word for what Holden is about to become.”

She looked even happier, a flush on her face, shaking her head as her smile got a little wobbly.

“Uh oh,” he said.

“Don’t be a brat. It’s beautiful what’s happening. I _love_ that you’re getting married, Sean, and I _love_ that you’re marrying _him._ Openly, and so beautifully…” 

She stopped talking, tightening her lips as she got all chocked up.

He gave her a huge, sheepish grin.

Snapping out of it, she gave him a stern look before shutting her book.

“How’re you feeling about your interviews tomorrow?”

He shrugged. Paula’s beef with the team’s defense was ongoing, but at least it was consistent with what the sports media always said. Stern had interviewed him throughout his career, almost from year one when he was first round draft pick in the NFL. Howard talked about everything in the universe, as long as it was interesting and real, and Kara’s advice had been right on that anything he didn’t want to talk about could be deflected with humor.

“Should be fun, I guess.”

“Make it fun, kiddo. It’s your life. Okay, gotta run.”

“Give my love to Kay and Deena. And tell Deena I got the messages she sent through Holden. All twelve of them.”

She snorted.

After he logged off, he tried calling Davey, who didn’t answer. So he texted him about the tuxes, that they apparently had to get going on them, and that he was still waiting for a picture of Michelle. Then he got up and walked over to the picture window overlooking midtown. He had an important phone call to make before heading to the shower.

“We’ve received our profile from Soirée,” Holden told him, sounding pleased. “And I have to say, it’s very nice.”

“Is it?” he asked, his elbow propped against the glass. This far into the offseason, he thought he might have finally settled a question he’d asked himself throughout the season. Whether he’d ever get used to the feeling of _having won_ which accompanied hearing Holden’s voice on the phone whenever he was out of LA. The things it did it to him. The answer apparently was no. It would always feel incredible to call and have Holden answer and sound thrilled to hear his voice.

“It is,” Holden said. “And our theme is not in fact _rocky road, _as I’d feared,” which made him laugh and shake his head. “It’s _heartwarming and elegant._ Not bad for us, huh?”__

__“Come here and meet me tonight,” he said._ _

__Holden gave his self-aware phone laugh, the one that knew there’d be a request for phone sex on the heels of all this._ _

__“Not only can I not come and meet you in New York tonight, I actually have to go right now. I have a dinner I can’t be late for.”_ _

__“What’re you doing after?”_ _

__“I think I’m busy.”_ _

__“Call me when you’re done being busy. Doesn’t matter how late. And use a normal headset, would you? That Bluetooth thing of yours keeps falling off at the worst possible moments.”_ _

__“I’m hanging up…” Holden said, his laughter cut off by the line disconnecting._ _

__He left the window, headed for the bathroom. Davey’s texts came in before he got there._ _

___Where do we get the tuxes and how much will it cost? Cause I’m not paying for mine._ _ _

__And _Not even sure where you get a tux for a one-percenters party. Hope you got that stuff taken care of._ _ _

__And finally, _Say hi to Prince C for me.__ _

__He texted him asking him whether he couldn’t fucking talk, and Davey texted back, _No.__ _

__And he was about to text him that they were likely to fail this mission when an image suddenly came in on the app. He tapped it, then stood there nearly floored with happiness as an image of a smiling, waving, pregnant Michelle filled up his phone. He was speechless. And he could feel Davey laughing._ _

__—_ _

__A couple hours later, he was feeling _very good_ about having come to New York. It was proving great being around the guys on the East. Guys who, like him, spent most of the offseason taking care of the life they couldn’t get to during the season. Or tried to take care of it anyway._ _

__There were six of them: three players from the Giants, a couple Jets, and him. All sitting around a Manhattan sports grill for a huge stake dinner, here to talk about family and life. It was tradition in the league, what, for him, the other side of professional life was all about._ _

__For most of them, it was all about catching up with kids who from the pictures alone were growing up fast as hell, and spend time with partners who’d been holding down the fort while they were on the road. For some too it was a time to make sure that their finances hadn’t been derailed while they’d been gone._ _

__They were guys whose lives he had spent years envying, wondering whether he could ever put his go-for-broke on field reputation into action in his personal life. Now, on the other side of it, it really was true that all you needed to do anything in life was the love of a good partner._ _

__Looking at their pictures, he could see from the corner of his eye a couple of them looking just as closely at him. Seeing as everyone in the world knew why he’d come out of the closet, he had no doubt they were wondering whether he would indeed be able to accomplish all he’d set for himself. They were, after all, very competitive individuals._ _

__One of the Giants, Lino, perhaps sensing the air at the table, clapped his shoulder and said, “We’re waiting on you, Sean.”_ _

__“Sean’s working on it,” one of the Jets, Brecken, solemnly pledged for him, and he nodded in appreciation._ _

__It was also tradition that they do a group photo for the restaurant, which they did early in. Within the hour, the restaurant had jammed with new patrons holding up phones at them from all over the restaurant. Presumably, management had tweeted the picture to the restaurant’s account._ _

__Haldren, one of the Giants and a father of four, looked long across the restaurant at the commotion of LED flashlights._ _

__“It’ll pass,” his teammate Lino said. “Just don’t none of you pull out your phones and start tweeting yourselves.”_ _

__He held up his hands, showing that he’d be the last to do so._ _

__“I’m sure it will,” Haldren said, pointing at a wall toward the back of the restaurant. It was floor to ceiling with photos. Photos of old, legendary players, of past times. “But remember when that used to be a special thing? I remember I used to come in here as a kid and stare at these pictures. A moment that captures a thousand words? Now you’re lucky if it captures a tweet.”_ _

__They all laughed, nodding._ _

__“Well, look,” Paulson, the other Jets player said, turning the handle of his mug of dark beer. “We’re here, holding on to tradition. And we’re gonna have a drink to Sean joining the ranks._ _

__“Uh huh,” the third Giants player, Michaels, said. “Nice ring you got there, Sean. Second only to the big one. And I don’t mean the championships.”_ _

__“How’re you enjoying wedding planning?” Brecken suddenly asked, and he groaned, holding his head, before he could stop himself. The table laughed._ _

__“Listen,” Lino said. “I don’t care what anybody says. I enjoyed the hell out of my wedding planning. My wife hated, and I mean hated the experience. She wanted to climb out of the window to escape one of the wedding planner visits. I had to hold on to her foot to keep her from going. I’m not kidding,” he said when the table fell apart laughing. “But me? I was in there like it was third down with seconds on the clock. It’s a mafia war, wedding planning. And I was their John Gotti. I took no prisoners. I had a blast.”_ _

__He was laughing so hard he was crying. Lino looked completely serious, his face lit up like his niece’s after an especially memorable school trip. So was he being too rough on Holden? But the other guys looked just as put upon as he felt._ _

__“I don’t even remember mine,” Haldren muttered, shaking his head. “I think my sister did more than I did.”_ _

__“My wife had my sympathy,” Brecken said. “But I was like, you’re on your own, woman. Just make sure you got a couple backup credit cards, cause I may not be reachable out on the ninth hole.”_ _

__They were dying._ _

__“I did my fair share,” Paulson said modestly. “But I can’t say I enjoyed it. I just saw it as some kind of rite of passage into married life.”_ _

__He nodded, considering that that might not be a bad way to look at it._ _

__Paulson picked up his mug. “Welcome to the ball and chain gang, Sean. It’s good to have you here.”_ _

__“Thanks, man.”_ _

__They raised their beers, toasting to boring stability, and a happy, fulfilling family life._ _

__*_ _


	6. Chapter 6

Standing at the valet at the Bel-Air Hotel, he was nervous about seeing Kate Hazeltine. He tapped her wedding invitation against his leg and looked out across the driveway. 

They hadn’t seen each other since her AFC Championship party in January, when he hadn’t been much of a guest for being out of his mind with missing Sean. Prior to that, he’d last seen her in the late summer, weeks before proceeding to fall into a sex hole with Sean. Between then and now, all he’d managed were a handful of texts, every complaint Sean had leveled against him over the years for delayed or unreturned communications coming back to haunt him. Leaving him feeling like a very poor friend. 

The invitation in hand made him feel slightly better. The one he hadn’t wanted to give her until he could be sitting across from her and offering an apology. It felt nice to accomplish that much.

It was 7pm on a cool, clear evening in LA—10 pm in New York where, according to Twitter, Sean was out with his NFL friends—and even nervous to see her, he was also very excited. Tonight, Elliot’s refusal to talk, his own possible overreaction to Eddie’s note, and those damned barrage of emails, none of which he’d looked at beyond the two, all sat at low priority.

Wanting to treat her, he’d set their dinner at the hotel and asked to send a car for her. Usually all things she refused in favor of meeting somewhere in Westwood. But she’d said enthusiastic yes, to his surprise. So he’d dispatched an equally pleased Redmond to get her from Northridge where she lived.

Being at the hotel also felt like a triumph of sorts, as ever since that fiasco of a dinner they’d had with his dad back when Sean first returned in January, he’d more or less avoided the place. 

Even now, he could look down the driveway and see Sean standing not too far from where he was now, trying to hide the haunted look in his eyes. Starting to show the frayed edges that were the result of years of emotional neglect.

He still saw it, but he didn’t feel so threatened by it anymore. He and Sean had come a very long way from that. It was partly why he had felt more than okay to have Anne and Wil stay there.

Nevertheless… 

He did find himself glancing once over his shoulder at the hotel entrance, momentarily concerned that he might have bitten off more than he could chew. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel seeing his dad at that moment.

As if on cue, Redmond’s car just then pulled onto the hotel grounds.

The car cruised around and up to the valet, where he raised a hand to indicate that he’d get the door himself. It came to a stop and he reached for the door handle. 

Kate climbed out, cane first, and a big, thrilled grin on her face. And his nervousness simply vanished. They were going to have a great goddamned evening.

Careful of her cane, he waited until she was balanced on her feet before wrapping his arms around her, and they hugged like the old friends they had long become.

—

He’d reserved them a table in the back with views of the night garden and an occasional glimpse of the swan in the small pond. In their excitement to see each other, he didn’t think she had noticed the leather slipcase he was holding. 

So while their waiter assisted with seating her, informing him that the chef was thrilled he’d chosen to dine with them, he thanked the waiter and and set the slipcase on his knee. Then realizing he couldn’t pull off keeping it balanced there like some kind of skilled magician, he discreetly moved it behind him in his chair and settled in more comfortably. And following hard-won experience, he refused to let them say a word to each other until they could put in their drinks order. Conversation would leave them dying of thirst and laughter in a minute otherwise.

Finished with seating her, the waiter stood back and informed him that he’d be happy to take their orders, but that the sommelier also sent his regards and had set aside a label for their aperitif. Would they care to try it now?

He looked at Kate. She looked vibrant in a black dress, her mass of red hair piled in a loose bun and her feet in cushioned flats. He thought she looked like a 70s era Neiman Marcus model and he’d told her so. She’d laughed and shaken her head at him, like she’d actually been charmed.

Now, she cocked an eyebrow at the waiter’s words, an interested expression on her face. She nodded, and he asked the waiter to go ahead.

As soon as the waiter left, he tried to launch into an apology. But he hadn’t gotten a sentence out when interrupted, looking at him as if he were crazy.

“You weren’t missing in action,” she said. “You _were_ the action, Instagram man. Holy Jesus.”

At first he had no idea what she was talking about. Then it all rushed back to him, and he laughed.

“Kate, I’m trying to apologize.”

“You can forget that,” she said with a grin. “I wanna here all about Iowa, and I wanna see what’s behind your back, Holden. Til then, we’re just making chitchat.”

When he might have looked like he hadn’t quite understood some part of her words, because he hadn’t realized she had noticed the slipcase, her grin only widened. She poked a finger at him, at what was behind him.

He slowly shook his head. “That was going to be my moment.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.” Though she sounded opposite. “Come on, Holden. I’m sitting on book two after the cliffhanger in book one and you’re telling me not to read.”

He laughed. Just then the waiter arrived, which was perfect timing. He waited until their wine had been shown, poured and set, before lifting his glass.

“Come on, pick it up. We’re doing a toast.”

“What for?” she asked, picking up her glass.

“For you being an angel in my life…and apparently not even knowing it.” 

She looked entirely skeptical and said, “Holden, I’ve done nothing. It’s you that—”

“Don’t ever say those words again,” he said seriously. “You helped saved the most important relationship of my life simply by being you. So please allow me _this_ moment to thank you. To you, Kate.”

“To us,” she said.

And he reluctantly accepted, tipping his head. Then they downed their wines. And then, when the astonishingly crisp flavors hit their tastebuds, turned surprised looks at the bottle.

“Wow,” she said. “Wine guy loves ya.”

“No kidding.”

He refilled them.

“Okay,” he told her. “We’re not starting with me. Instagram can wait. I wanna hear everything that’s been going on with you starting from…early fall, I think it was.”

So she began. It turned out that her son Edison, now nine, had had a huge crush on his homeroom teacher and moving up a grade and not having her every day had proved quite the emotional transition for him. 

“Luckily,” she said, “I’d had plenty of practice in the summer navigating those not-so-subtle society drama at your Bel Air cocktails. So I was especially ready for the poor kid, prepared with lots of patience and plenty of, shall we say, unobserved eye-rolling.”

He groaned into his wine glass. “I’m so embarrassed for everyone I know.”

“That was pretty crazy,” she agreed. “Entertaining, but crazy.”

Next, a ton of people had friended her on Facebook on the sudden realization that she and he were mutual friends on the network. She’d taken a look at the notifications page one morning, a couple days into his first trip to Johnston, saw “about a billion” friend requests, and closed the page, never to be looked at again.

He could only laugh, understanding, and told her the next time it happened to just send them all his way. 

“I’ll gladly friend them back.”

She looked surprised. “You would?”

He shrugged. “Sure. It’s not like I post anything personal on there. Mostly work related, for deals we close and the like. Since it’s been public who I’m with, I’ve had all kinds of requests. Once in a while I put up pictures of things to do with Johnston now.”

Without a second thought, he skipped the part where he’d used it for a bit more shady things in the fall. Cut off from physical connection with Sean, he’d come as close as he ever would to understanding why people became obsessed with celebrities. Back then, an update from Kara’s office to Sean’s Facebook page brought him to near orgasm. And God help if there was a photo involved.

“I’ll have to make a post next time,” she said, making him backtrack to remember that they’d been talking about friending on Facebook.

Lastly, the House of Reps member he’d introduced her to last summer at the Berkleys’ political fundraiser, the one who’d jumped all over working with her on veterans issues, had _actually_ jumped all over her at a subsequent Christmas fundraiser at the VA. 

“Tired as I was after physiotherapy,” she told him. “I couldn’t even deal with simply ignoring him. So I used my cane to clear him off his feet and onto the punch table,” she said matter-of-factly, making him almost snort wine through his nose. “The table collapsed under his weight, which then allowed me to make a massive fuss over helping him untangle from the tablecloth.” She grinned shaking her head. “And get this, he texted me afterward telling me that it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to him.”

He swallowed, almost making a mess with his wine. “Noo,” he moaned, embarrassed that he had to add Rep. Halsey to his hall of embarrassment.

“The philanthropy’s been phenomenal, though,” she said. “I’ll always be grateful to you Bel Air people for that.”

He bobbed his glass.

“To a last, great, insane year, Kate.”

“Hear, hear.”

Their water returned, making them realize they hadn’t even located their menus. As they cleared their throats and reached for them, the waiter spoke.

“Chef would be pleased to surprise you tonight, Mr. Wilson. He says to tell you he’s excited for the opportunity.”

He cocked an eyebrow at Kate, who cocked an eyebrow back. The same intrigued one from before.

“Sure,” he said to the waiter.

The waiter nodded and left with their menus. Kate was staring at him with a bemused expression.

“What’s that look?” he asked, knowing. “Are you assessing me?”

She pursed her lips, but didn’t give him an answer.

Then she lifted her chin toward his chair. 

“Am I gonna have to wrestle you for what’s behind your back?”

He smiled. Reaching behind him, he brought the slipcase around and withdrew the invitation from it. Then he set it on the slipcase, then put both on the table. Slowly, he slid the items toward her.

“For you,” he said, self-consciously. “Way late.”

Even having asked for it, she apparently hadn’t had actually had a clue what it was. 

For long blank moments she was just staring down at the rectangle with the W scripted on it. Sitting as it was like an app opening on an iPad mini. 

“I wanted to give it to you by hand,” he explained. “It’s why I didn’t have it delivered. And I’m just— I’m sorry it took this long.”

Then her eyes widened.

“Holy cow,” she whispered. “This is it, isn’t it?” She slowly lowered her hand to it. “I saw a picture of one on the internet, but I see now that it was a fake.” 

Slowly picking it up, she withdrew the invitation and took some more time staring at it. 

“Wow. This is a work of art.”

And much to his surprise, he didn’t feel any twinge of irritation. 

Nothing like what used to accompany watching Sean look at it like it was a sex toy. Sliding it from its envelope to stare hungrily at it when he wasn’t looking, slipping it under Soirée’s wedding book when he was. 

He got that for Sean there was that added element of it begin their wedding invitation, but the whole experience had been trying nonetheless.

But after his talk with Anne in Johnston about it, he was ready to make peace with it. He could accept now that people looked at it and didn’t see what his family had done. They saw only saw an invitation to his wedding and that it was… well, elegantly done.

Thanks to Anne, he was cured.

“You’ve got a look on your face.”

He raised his eyes to Kate, smiled. “No look.”

“A little look.”

He tipped his head. “It was a little trying getting here.”

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even have to suspect the crap that must have gone down. But she also realized this was not the evening they’d be getting into it.

She leaned forward. “You know, for one thing, this is the first time I’ve ever been to a wedding where the venue is secret. But more important than that…” she lowered her voice further. “I’m going to _Sean Jackson’s_ wedding.”

“But what’s even crazier,” he said, pointing to the invitation, “is that _I’m_ gonna be there. I’ll be the guy in a tux randomly saying hi to guests, getting wasted and making out with the groom in the bathroom.”

She was laughing quietly, squeezing shut her eyes. “You’re not even kidding about that.”

“Why would I be? I’m invited to this thing. And I’m planning on having a good time.”

“And Sean? Is he ready for what you got coming?”

“He really couldn’t be if he tried.”

He was smiling, still amused by last night. Aside from the note freaking him out, the evening had actually gone better than he had anticipated.

Their appetizers then arrived, and they listened as the waiter introduced it as the first course of their “vegetarian sea course” dinner, prepared to complement their choice of wine.

They dug in as soon as the waiter left, and after one bite, Kate sat up in surprise.

“Oh, man,” she said. “Chef guy also loves ya.”

“Tell you secret?” he said softly to her. “I swear they’ve been making me better food ever since they found out I’m with Sean.” She started snickering and he had stop so that he wouldn’t start laughing, then said, “I’m so not kidding. The owner’s the biggest Chargers fan and he totally loses it when Sean’s around.”

She stopped eyeing the succulent date-paste, goat cheese bruschetta in her hand and looked at him. “Wolfgang Puck is a Chargers fan?”

“You have no idea.”

She looked amazed. Then she looked down at her plate, smiling as if the revelation made it all taste a little better.

—

Appetizers long done, they were making their way through their main course. He had told her all about Johnston, how unforeseen the results of that first trip, how he really now understood what it meant to have taken a journey.

“We both did, on that trip,” he said, before it started dawning on him that she might have no idea, or not understand the depth of what he meant regarding Sean. 

It led to the realization that she had never met Sean. 

The wrongness of it nearly stopped him in the middle of his dinner. 

This was something he needed to rectify as soon as possible. She’d been instrumental in resolving a monumental knot in himself, and in his relationship with both Sean and his father.

But as he made a mental note to fix it, his conscience poked him, wanting to know why he was willing to consider her and not his closest friends.

“The whole thing was like a photoshoot for love,” she said, referring their time in Johnston. 

“Especially those gazebo ones. Those must have the Family Research Council’s entire budget for the year.”

“Oh, well, we do what we can,” he said immodestly, loving the thought that a moment that had been so important to Sean might have another flip-out at the Council’s offices. Wasn’t their president locked in some scandal now or something…

“Was it staged?” she asked.

Not needing to think back, he said, “I think Sean had staged it for his teenaged self, yes.”

She actually seemed to understand what he’d just said, what Sean had done, and he smiled and shrugged in self awareness. She then looked as affected as he had seen her that day he gave her his ride from the airport.

“Really?” she asked quietly, and at his nod, she just kept staring at him.

“I was like, whatever,” he said, cracking her up.

“Is that why you’re blushing right now?”

“It was very heartwarming,” he admitted. “Very flattering to be the one sitting there with him. The whole night was incredibly flattering. Kate, that town is crazy over him.”

“They’d be crazy not to be. He’s one of the biggest things in the NFL. People go to Johnston for the Super Bowl even when he’s not there, how much more when he is. It also helps that from all reports, Sean is an amazing guy.” 

He paused in eating, giving it a thought. “That might probably the most understated thing anyone’s ever said.”

She smiled, slowly shaking her head at him. “Look at you.”

He smiled back. “Look at me.”

“And what was the deal with you and the sleds?” she suddenly asked.

“Oh, Jesus.” He shook his head, proceeding to tell her about the teens, who probably sensing hijinks, insisted on teaching him how to sled— _To take a wild sled ride down the mountain side,_ they’d practically chanted at him—and the headache Sean gave himself shooing them away all night.

“Why wouldn’t he let them?” she asked, laughing so much she couldn’t eat for a minute.

“Come on, you’ve seen me in an airplane cabin. I was all for it, but let’s be honest, even being a passenger on a ride down without killing myself would have been impossible.”

“But couldn’t Sean have helped?” she insisted, tears of laughter in her eyes.

“He…kind of did…later. But— well…” 

But he just shook his head, remembering Sean’s white face as later in the night, before departing for his hotel, Sean had let him try, taking him to a secluded area. They had stood together over the sled, but for the life of him he hadn’t been able to make it align with his center of gravity, no matter how still, per Sean’s instructions, he stayed. The sled had just seemed to have a life of its own.

“Well, let’s just say thank God there’re no pictures of that,” he said.

She could hardly breathe. “You’re killin’ this guy.”

“He can handle it.”

But the whole thing, the trip, his and Sean’s journeys, being told a year in from how he had met her, only underscored how strange life could be, how improbable.

And then he realized that she had gone quiet, was in a contemplative mood. She looked around, taking in the dining room, sparse with diners, as if absorbing radio wave information. It was easy now to recognize when she was taking an assessment of a situation, and he didn’t interrupt. 

She then returned her bluntly observant gaze to him, then said, “May I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“What is your deal anyway?”

The question caught him so off guard, moments passed with him doing nothing but staring at her.

“What were you doing in coach that day we met?” she asked pointedly.

The followup left him still at a loss.

She had stopped eating, lowering her cutlery and placing her arms on her chair’s armrests.

“There’s a reason I agreed to meet you here. I mean, here you are,” she said, giving the restaurant a pointed, cursory look. “CEO of a…. _very_ lucrative boutique firm, your family the Rockerfellers of the West Coast… You’re treated like royalty here. And where do I find you but in coach class, moonlighting with the rest of us normal people. What gives?”

“I wasn’t moonlighting,” he said, both surprised and confused. “And I _am_ normal.”

“No, sorry, I didn’t meant to say that you’re _faking_ anything. I just— well, was business class full up or something?”

He thought back but knew he had no actual idea, and told her so.

“But why _weren’t_ you in business class? Or do you fly coach?”

“No, I fly business class all the time. It’s just that I hardly ever get to sit in my seat.” 

“Why on earth not?”

He shrugged “Because there’s almost always someone who needs it. In that particular instance, an older gentleman had had to reroute his entire flight schedule at the last minute out of Germany, where, interestingly, he’d gone on a solo bucket list trip to Hanover. The last minute changes had obviously exhausted him so I gave him my seat up front. More resting space,” he added, when she just kept staring at him. “Happens to me all the time.” 

She didn’t appear to know whether to laugh or not. 

Then she did laugh, a kind of baffled, amused laugh.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

“I don’t think so,” he said blandly. “It’s not that hard to give up a seat wherever it might be located. But I’ll tell you another reason I don’t mind doing it. You ever flown first class?”

“Uh…no.”

“Well, the seats are miles apart and everyone puts on their headsets and closes off. No way to strike up a conversation, you hardly even make eye contact. Whereas in coach—“

“People squeeze by you to get to the bathroom, they fall asleep on your shoulder…”

He smiled, nodding.

But she wasn’t saying anything. Just looking at him.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

“It’s not that hard to give up a seat in business class.”

But she was still looking at him.

“When I first met you,” she told him. “I had you completely wrong. Yes I could do the simple deductions based on your behavior and appearance, but I thought you were the wronged one. I thought, whatever woman has broken his heart has probably ruined him for all the others to come.”

She paused, and eating, he waited for her to complete her thoughts.

“Sexual orientation bias aside, it never occurred to me that you’re actually more like a book with the pages closed. And no matter how many times a person comes upon you, you worry about anyone being able to look inside.”

“A very close friend of mine told me that I was like an open book to him.”

“It’s a neat trick, I agree,” she said. “But you’re only as open as the description on the back cover. No matter how much detail you put back there, that’s not the book. And I bet a lot of men have read your description page and thought they knew you.”

Suddenly he was having a problem taking a clear breath. And then he looked across the room and there was his dad.

Anywhere else, he might have thought he had a special kind of guilt gene that could do this. But he was at his father’s home away from home, so the chances had been high.

And frankly, it might feel mentally uncomfortable, but…he felt he was ready for this.

At the bar, his dad and a couple of golf friends seemed to have stopped by for something. One of the friends had been the first to see him, and as he raised a hand in greeting the man tapped his dad. His dad, whom he noticed looked very healthy these days, glanced over and looked very surprised to see him.

He brought his eyes back to Kate who had turned to see what had taken away his attention. She turned back with widened eyes and pursed lips.

His dad had stared coming over, and when his dad was close, he stood up, going around for Kate’s chair as she did the same.

“Hello, son.”

“Hi, dad.”

Then, as he dad took his shoulder, he steeled himself to stiffen, for the feelings of defense and defiance that had come to define their interactions.

But nothing at all came. Like with the previous morning of their breakfast, he just saw his dad.

"You look very well this evening.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “I am.” Then after a moment, he said, “You do too.”

“Well,” his dad said. “Been consistent with the holing.”

“Dad, this is Captain Kate Hazeltine, US Army.”

“Good evening, sir.”

“Haven’t we met?” his dad asked. “Weren’t you the vet whose cause Rep. Halsey took a keen interest in?”

And for the first time in a very long time, he found himself smiling because of something his father had said. 

Keen interest indeed.

His dad’s eyes, now on him, looked just as surprised.

“Yes, sir,” Kate replied without a flicker to betray her amusement. “That is in fact me. I’m honored you remember.”

“Oh, I never forget Holden’s friends. I can still name half the kids he used to follow around in grade school. But none of this sir business. Please, call me Alastair.”

Kate pressed her lips tight and nodded, clearly not quite able to do it, but enjoying the moment nonetheless.

“Please, have a seat,” his dad said. “Don’t allow me to keep you any further. Great to see you again, son. I’ll see you later.”

But, hand on his shoulder, his father only stood there.

He knew he had no reason to react to his father’s borderline eye-rolling parent moment, but it was only by holding himself very stiffly that he didn’t simply turn and hug him.

When he didn’t move, his dad patted his shoulder and then was gone, headed back to his friends. 

He slowly took his seat.

Then he he looked at Kate, self-consciously, knowing he was flushed. She was quiet, back to eating her dinner. But she looked completely surprised.

—

In much too short a time, they stood outside waiting for Redmond’s car, their wonderful evening at an end. He realized then that he might have been spoiled having fourteen hours to talk and laugh to their heart’s content the first time they met.

“Mr. Wilson, good evening,” a polished voice said from behind them. They looked over their shoulders to see a hotel manager standing there smiling professionally at him.

“Good evening, ma’am,” she said to Kate. “Sir, we hope you enjoyed your evening at the hotel?”

He told her he had, thanks. She nodded and walked away.

Self-conscious now, he avoided Kate’s gaze. But she had lifted the same amused eyebrow at no one in particular.

“They do that to everyone,” he said to her.

She just smiled and shook her head.

“What’re you doing for draft day?” she asked.

“Are you having a party?”

“I might be. But I’m presuming you and Sean are doing something. It’s a huge day in the offseason.”

“He doesn’t really do anything NFL related with me.”

“No? Why?”

“I’m a hundred percent sure, though I get the impression he thinks I don’t like the NFL.”

“Don’t you?” she asked, surprised.

“Of course not. I was at your party and I had a great time.”

“So…?”

She just looked at him, and he stared back, as confused, and they both broke into laughter.

“That’s crazy,” she said.

“I know it is. It’s a fog of miscommunication I can’t penetrate. So we have a date for Draft Day?”

“Count on it. Oh and his Stern interview’s tomorrow. That should be a blast.”

He raised both eyebrows, not having thought about it. “Should I be interested?”

Redmond’s car gleamed up to the valet just then, and she turned with a big grin.

“You should be _very_ interested.”

*


	7. Chapter 7

New York was experiencing a mild spring day. And by noon he was enjoying most of it. Finished with his Stern interview, he was climbing into the back of a Town Car amid a small, screaming crowd at the side doors.

He was headed to his Harper Collins lunch. About which, after this morning’s interview, he was actually now _interested._

Maybe the whole book thing could be for a reason. Maybe it was time society, or popular culture—or whomever, a part of him quietly added—expanded their horizons to include his type of gay man. He had no interest or wish to upstage anyone, but he was out now, and if he had stopped hiding himself in the most vital of ways, then he might as well go all the way.

He’d told Holden the interview would be over by 9am LA time, but since it wasn’t airing on TV there until evening, Holden had banned him from calling with “spoilers.”

So he settled into the back and watched Manhattan crawl by.

This morning he might have stirred a little bit of a hornet’s nest, but he had staked his claim as well.

*

“Holden, you shouldn’t be not talking to Petey and Elliot on the day of Sean’s interview with Stern.”

Sitting back in his office chair, he wondered when he’d started being the crazy one in the group. Or what Craig was talking about.

“I’m not the one not talking to them.”

“Well, just get down here anyway. Can you spare the hour?”

“Where are you?” he asked in confusion.

“At Petey’s office. He’s got eats from Cavanaugh.”

“How’re _you_ there?” he asked, wondering whether he had missed something overnight. “I thought you said they were mad at you too.”

“They are, but I’m here. So you probably should be too. Geffen and Petey had breakfast this morning and Petey wants to talk.”

“But I didn’t get any lunch invitation,” he said.

“Probably not the time to complain, though.”

Glancing at the workload on his desk’s, he quickly checked his watch.

“They’re not gonna chew my head off, are they?” he asked wearily. 

Craig didn’t reply, as though he was focused on something else. “Probably not,” Craig eventually said. “See you shortly.”

—

When he arrived at Geffen foundation offices in West Hollywood, it was to find Petey at anything but the cold temperature his lack of communication had supposed. 

Outside the huge wooden doors to Petey’s office, Craig was leaning against the art deco wall apparently scrolling through messages. Inside, heard clearly from the hallway, Petey was hurling abuses at the door, commotion which none of the staff within earshot seemed fazed by.

Stopping in front of Craig, who didn’t look up, he pointed inside.

“They’re ready for you,” Craig said.

After a moment, the situation looking somewhat familiar, he went inside.

To his left, Elliot was quietly hyperventilating, laughing so hard he was silent on the couch, while in the middle of the office floor, Petey stood, ranting. To himself, apparently. He seemed to be oscillating between raging at the doorway, so at Craig, and moaning in self-disgust.

Petey looked very good in a lilac dress shirt and dark grey pants. He looked as if one of those pretty models was screaming from a magazine page instead of making a sexy face.

Slowly going over, he sat down beside Elliot and turned to him. “What happened?” he whispered.

Elliot had a hand pressed to his eyes. There were tears there. 

Taking a breath, Elliot said, “Craig and Petey hooked up last night. While there, Craig texted Bryan with Petey’s phone, asking Bryan to come over for a spicy late night latte. He actually used that phrase. And Bryan _hurriedly_ showed up. And having both Petey’s gate and elevator code, buzzed himself up. Bryan then goes straight to Petey’s door, where Craig is waiting to welcome him. Butt naked.” 

While he closed his eyes, Elliot struggled to finish. “Craig asks Bryan to come right in, at which point Bryan flipped _the fuck_ out. And Petey has been having a meltdown ever since.”

“Who does that!” Petey yelled. “Why, why would anyone do something so pathetic and disgusting!”

He tried, God knows he tried. But he was laughing his ass off. He was trying to fathom the logistics and the dynamics, not to mention the visuals, and any words of sympathy he had for Petey were simply drowning in his laughter. He thought maybe this time, Craig might have actually outdone himself.

He stood up. “Petey,” he said, approaching with caution. “Shh, shh. Just take it easy. Come on. You know better than to get upset like this. I’m sure Bryan will be fine.”

Petey turned an affronted look at him. “Says the guy who won’t introduce Sean to his friends!”

“Sean isn’t Bryan,” he said matter-of-factly, and being close enough now, tried what Elliot had done so effectively for him last week, and wrapped Petey in a slow, warm hug.

Petey was a stiff as a board, burning hotter than charcoal. When he pulled back Petey was no different than before he had hugged him, except now he was a little more contained and was eyeing him.

“You smell really nice,” Petey muttered.

“Thanks,” he said, turning toward the door, keeping it moving. “Is Craig staying outside or are we inviting him in?”

“What the fuck you think, Holden!”

“Outside for now, then.”

—

“Where’re we watching Sean on Howard Stern tonight?” Craig asked at the end of their lunch.

Both Elliot and Petey said, in unison, “Holden’s place.”

And there was no further discussion about it.

*

Elliot and Petey arrived together from West Hollywood. Craig was already inside, sipping on his second Jameson and looking through Sean’s subscription of ESPN Magazine. 

He had just finished reading Craig’s frankly genius text to Bryan, which Petey had indignantly forward to Elliot and Elliot had sent to Craig’s phone for posterity. Hearing the story that afternoon had left him wondering why Bryan hadn’t thought it weird that Petey was suddenly texting him in what was indisputably the sex-only timeframe, and with such an obviously silly stereotypical self-descriptor. Anyone less horny would have smelled something funny.

But reading the innocence-imbued text would have swayed even him. Had Sean had sent him such a text, say one night during the period when they were broken up, he would have shown up in Malibu within seconds and that would have been the day they resumed their affair. What Bryan thought to get out of it, though, was anybody’s guess.

Elliot entered the condo first, handing him a bottle of Sonoma red and pretending to not be taking visual inventory of everything in sight, in an obvious search for signs of Sean’s habitation. Petey wasn’t being anything near as subtle.

As soon as Petey cleared the threshold his eyes dropped to the floor around the welcome rug. Finding nothing there—Sean’s house moccasins were upstairs in his bedroom—Petey began a leisurely stroll along the foyer, toward the kitchen. “Hi, Holden,” he said over his shoulder.

Elliot closed the door behind him while he thanked him for the wine and gave him a contrite look. Lifting a hand, as if just thinking about it gave him a headache, he followed him toward the living room.

Elliot hadn’t taken him to task that afternoon and Petey had been too enraged to do more than take the whole lunch hour to calm down. 

His own problems had taken a back seat to the hashing out of hooking up etiquette and its attendant morés. A conversation which, Elliot had coyly pointed out to him, he hadn’t at all gotten rusty on.

“Holden is engaged, not dead,” Petey had impatiently said.

“I promise I’ll figure this out,” he said to Elliot in a low voice as they entered the living room. Elliot said said nothing, just found himself somewhere to sit.

Petey had returned from the kitchen, apparently not having noticed, or recognized if he had, all the cooking stuff Sean used which were sitting all over the counters. 

By now he was at the wet bar, opening Elliot’s bottle. Petey came by and continued his unsubtle peering around. 

“What is that?” Petey said, indicating Craig’s trove of magazines. “Are those his?”

“They’re just magazines,” Craig said.

“Holden, this is the only evidence we have that the man exists in your life. I swear, Elliot, if we hadn’t run into him in back in January, I’d say this entire relationship was a fake. I want to see Sean Jackson actually inside Holden’s condo, _with Holden._ Am I the only one who thinks this is weird? I mean, I’ve seen closeted gay men together more often than the two of them.”

Craig stared at Petey over the top of the magazine, probably considering whether to leave that easy bait lying there. Thankfully, Elliot made a raising motion with his hand and Craig saw it and returned to reading.

“Seriously, Holden,” Petey finished. “All kidding aside. When are we meeting him.”

Handing out glasses, he poured the wine.

“It’s gonna happen,” he said to Petey.

“That much is true,” Elliot said. A bit cryptically, if you asked him. “So where exactly do you keep your porn collection with him around, Holden?” Elliot said.

“Why’re you assuming he hides it?” Petey asked.

“Oh, for all kinds of reasons.”

Petey, still restless, rose with his glass from the armrest where he had perched, and began roaming the living room. He headed toward the balcony sliding doors. There were many things that could have indicated if Petey knew how to look. Aside from the cooking stuff, his home theater’s radio was permanently tuned to EPSN Radio, the patio furniture was turned every which way, whereas beyond the occasional side table, he didn’t think he had ever shifted a single item from how it had looked in the decorators’ catalogue. And the scent of him was everywhere. “Do you have the place _scrubbed_ of evidence when he leaves or something?”

“His magazines are all over the place,” Elliot pointed out. Elliot sounded amused, without a doubt probably seeing more indications that even he was aware of.

“Those are _Craig’s_ now,” Petey complained.

Ignoring them both, he took his wine and sat down on the sofa and picked up the TV remote.

“What was the result of your breakfast meeting with Geffen?” he asked Petey.

“We’ll talk about that later, Holden.”

“Did you guys settle on a venue, at least? One that isn’t a brothel in Amsterdam, I mean.”

“Oh, listen to that _I’m engaged_ tone.”

Craig looked at him. “How’d your own meetings go with Cece and Alastair, by the way? Any headway? Changes we should know of?”

“Only the major ones,” he said dryly. “We’re scheduled for Miami next week. By week’s end I should have everything in place. We should all talk after that.”

Craig returned to reading an issue of Sports Illustrated magazine with Sean on the over. One which, coincidentally, he’d observed Sean perusing some days ago.

“Anything I should know of in there?” he asked Craig.

“It’s all technical stuff.”

He nodded. After being blindsided by the FRC’s move last summer, they weren’t up for being caught off guard again, from any source.

“Hey, I want to show you guys something,” he told them, aiming the remote and turning on the TV. 

The screen filled end to end with high definition images, which were cover photos for folders of pictures from Johnston. Including a folder of pictures he’d downloaded of Sean at Bootleggers. 

Petey gasped and was back sitting on his armrest in a flash. The folders being labeled, Petey was pointing to the upper left one, the one that said _Bootleggers._ “That one.”

“I heard some stuff went down in there,” Elliot said, making him turn and look at him.

Elliot didn’t look at him. But he knew what Elliot was doing. Elliot didn’t make things up. And if he didn’t know what information Elliot had and wanted it, he knew what had to be done.

“What went down?” he tried.

“Was it the thing about the…” But Petey stopped talking, letting his words fade. He seemed to suddenly realize that they might be holding a magic wand. Petey brought his wine glass up to his lips. “That was dirty.”

He glanced at Craig. Craig was reading intently. 

He remembered how adamant Sean had been with Davey to not say. But if Elliot and Petey knew then it might have gotten around in certain gay party circles. He had been wracking his brain since February to guess what the hell it might have been.

“Well, press play, Holden,” Petey said.

“We’ve been it all before,” Craig suddenly said. 

“I agree,” Elliot said. “Let’s try that other one. That looks more…revealing.”

It was a folder of pictures from Sled Night. The cover image was of Sean looking like a windswept lumberjack in his wool hat and winter vest and mountain man beard, standing with his arm around a red-faced, beaming Louise.

“Does it have pictures of you in it?” Elliot asked.

“Tons.”

“Go ahead. I absolutely need to see you in country mode.”

“Let’s not miss the interview though,” Craig said.

“Oh, thanks for the warning, Craig,” Petey tersely said. “How very thoughtful of you to warn someone beforehand, before something disgusting happens.”

He shook his head as he scrolled to the folder. 

“This is the worst hookup you two have ever had.”

Elliot said, “I second that.”

The stack opened and a slideshow began. Some were images available on the internet, most were not. Pictures he’d taken himself or had had people there take for them.

And as with yesterday at his dinner with Kate, he watched his friends stare at the pictures in riveted silence and started to feel very bad. He just…needed to find a way to make them understand the total rejection with which Sean viewed their— _his_ previous…casual dating habits.

“I can hardly believe that’s you,” Elliot said, fascination softening his tone. “You look so different.”

“I don’t see it,” Petey said softly.

“Holden’s completely different around Sean,” Craig said.

In the silence that fell like blinds, Elliot and Petey turned and looked at Craig.

“How so?” Elliot asked, at the same time that Petey asked, “How?”

Craig shrugged.

Elliot waited, his eyes locked on Craig. But Petey had already rolled his eyes disgustedly at Craig and was prompting that he resume the slideshow.

It was on his tongue to say _Sean_ was different there, when he realized why, as with Kate, this was weird. Because he’d be making a comparison no one close to him would understand.

He sat there and finally accepted that this was fucked up.

A minute or so before the interview was set to air, he noticed something odd. Craig pulled his iPhone, which he carried but seldom looked at, the phantom zone for his unwanted communications, from his pocket. It had made a distinct notification sound and Craig now looked at it, looked a little surprised, before simply slipping it back into his trousers.

And then the sound cues for the show began.

—

“The layout of your studio’s changed, Howard,” Sean, seated on a bright read sofa adjacent to the radio DJ, said. “Looks bigger.”

“Okay, Sean? We’re _definitely_ not here to talk about the layout of the studio,” Howard said smoothly. “This is the first time I’ve gotten to interview you since you came out as gay, Sean. _Gay._ You. In the _NFL._ Now, every interview you’ve had so far has been professional and courteous.”

“Yeah, we’re not doing that,” Robin said.

“And we are definitely not doing that. So I really don’t care if the studio looks like Disneyland, or the tea room at the _Kremlin._ Today we’re talking dick sucking, butt-plugging, and time permitting, pro football.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Sean said amiably.

Robin laughed richly and nodded over and over while Fred, the technician who played crazy sounds in the background, started playing Frank Sinatra’s _Come Fly With Me._

Besides Sean and Howard and Robin, the studio was occupied by the two technicians, Fred, and the other whose name he was sure was Benjy. 

Scrubbed, neatly trimmed, and with his headset on, Sean looked easy and confident, in tan chinos and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. And he was glowing with a smile. It felt dizzying watching him, as it always did, knowing that was his for the having.

Petey, finally seeming to realize he was still sitting on an armrest, moved off it, and he moved along so Petey could sit.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Howard said. “ _Sean Jackson_ is here with us in the studio. And in case you’ve been living under a rock for the past year, well… you’re about to find out all kinds of things today. Say hi to everyone, Sean.”

“Hey, everyone. Good to be here.”

“It’s been a while, huh?”

“More than a year, Howard.”

“First off, I just wanna say, you look great. It’s like I’m looking at a Sports Illustrated photograph. Why don’t I ever look like this?”

“Living in LA might help,” Sean said. “Getting some sun.”

The studio moaned.

“Is that a dis to New York, Sean?” Robin said. “Cause you don’t wanna start with a dis.”

“He lives in LA,” Benjy said. “Him being here is a dis.”

There was more laughter.

“Listen, I don’t care if he lives in Mexico in the middle of a fair trade deal,” Howard said. “The conversation I’m about to have with Sean today, this _delving,_ if you will, is so important that the president of the country, who’s a Chiefs fan, by the way, is probably listening in right now.”

“Sounds important,” Sean said.

“Oh, what we discuss is very important, Sean,” Robin said, laughing deeply.

“And I have to add a preamble, by the way. What we’re about to get into is because you’re gay. Pure and simple. Take it or leave it. If you were straight, we wouldn’t care, because we all know what it’s like with a chick. Or chicks. No surprises there.”

“Gee, thanks, Howard.”

“No, I’m serious, Robin. Because this blew a lot of people’s minds. Sean Jackson, the actual poster boy for a guy’s guy, sleeps with men. Not women. _Any_ straight guy out there who says he’s not even a little bit curious as to what that’s all about is just plain lying.”

“True dat,” Benjy said from the back.

“Ninety-nine percent of straight guys want to know how the hell you have sex with a guy, if you’re Sean Jackson. Do you pitch, do you catch? Is it cool if you _switch hit._ So make yourself comfortable, Sean, today we’re goin’ in deep.”

“With metaphors, apparently,” Sean said. He grinned and gave Howard a thumbs up.

“That brought a _huge_ smile to his face,” Robin remarked.

“You’re gonna see that a lot,” Benjy wryly said. “Gay men are all about the doublespeak.”

Sean laughed, and Benjy said, “What’d I tell ya.”

“All right, let’s get to this. Sean, when you came out, you said that because of being in the closet playing football, you hadn’t been able to live the life you wanted. Do you still feel that way? Are you living the life you want now? Because frankly, I don’t see you out there getting as much dick as you could.”

“And exactly how much is that?” Sean asked.

“Don’t get technical on me. You know what I mean. You walked up to that podium and said, more than anything in this world, more than football even, I want to be free to do guys openly.” While the studio cracked up, Howard continued. “And we all said— no listen, don’t try to bullshit us, Sean, we all said, all right, fair enough. However, since then, none of us in the studio feel that you’ve lived up to that expectation.”

“Probably I should apologize for that.”

“You should,” Howard said. “And we’ll be getting back to that later. Okay, now that I have you warmed up and clearly excited— Benjy said that would happen, by the way. He said if you just mentioned the possibility of dick to a gay man, he gets better looking. You’re glowing right now, Sean.”

“It’s exciting to be here, Howard.”

“Not that exciting,” Robin said.

“And we are excited to have you here. We really are, Sean. In this morning’s meeting, someone, I think it was Gary, said it was such a huge relief that you weren’t one of those holier than thou assholes, those guys— and they know themselves— who can’t wait to tell you how they can’t swear because they were raised in a good Midwestern home.”

“What?” Robin asked. “Doesn’t everybody talk like we do? Doesn’t everybody say cock and pussy all the time?”

“Though in Sean’s case,” Benjy said. “I think it would be oral and anal.”

“Some people only say things like that when they’re drunk with hookers,” Howard explained, as an aside. “Every other time, they’re assholes about it. Same goes for oral or anal.”

“Sean?” Robin asked, tipping her head politely. “Oral, anal, cock, but hold the pussy, right?”

Sean was laughing, and Fred played the frantic sounds of a car horn blaring.

“All right,” Howard said. “Settle down, everyone. It’s time to get serious. We’re going to go into a few things today. First we’re gonna talk about being gay in the NFL, then we’re gonna clear up some lingering questions about certain perceptions and expectations about living on _your_ side of the sexual orientation line, Sean.”

“Sexual orientation spectrum,” Robin said.

“I’m sorry, spectrum, because Robin is right, we have discussed on the show the conditions under which some of us would temporality switch teams. And then before we go, we’ll get back to something Sean promised us the last time he was here.”

“That’s what Howard wants anyway,” Benjy said. “For the rest of us, all bets are off.”

“And I like it that way, Robin said. “Sean?”

“I’m here on your dime, Howard.”

“Great, I’m glad you understand that. Sean, in preparation of your coming by today, I asked around and there were none, or at least none that anyone would tell me, but there were _no_ rumors beforehand about you being gay. None. How is that possible? How did you keep it under wraps in the NFL?”

“What, from the media? From you guys? You don’t hear about that struff even now.”

“You’re talking gay players across the board.”

“Yeah. The league is protective like that, I guess. And by the league I mean the players, not anything official.”

“So what you’re saying is— of course there have to be lots of guys who’re gay in the NFL. Just statistically speaking. So are you saying you guys protect your own?”

“Look, we’re all there to play football—”

“And you’re all worth a lot of money,” Robin said.

“Right. Social issues don’t tend to be center focus in the lockers. I’m not saying personal hangups don’t come in, but I’ve never seen a situation with anyone acting funny.”

“Because you’re not above kicking anyone’s ass?”

Sean laughed a little, probably remembering the words he had used at his announcement.

“Have you seen a situation where somebody’s being talked about, harassed?”

“It’s strictly professional in there, Howard.”

“But come on, you have to know there’re guys who’re uncomfortable with you being in the locker room now.”

“I _don’t_ know. But we can presume. But it’s never gonna be my problem. Unless I go around, in a place where everyone’s trying to do their own thing, saying, hey, you okay with this? Me being here. This make you uncomfortable? Well, let’s talk about it, then. But first let’s put our pants back on.”

Robin chortled. “Or not.”

“Okay, I get that. I’ll accept that. Those locker rooms are pressure cookers. We’ve had guys come on the show and tells us some of them don’t even take calls from family before a game.”

Sean was nodding.

“But what about this other set of guys, there’s gotta be some envy and maybe even animosity from guys who can’t do what you did.”

“My heart goes out to them, Howard,” Sean said.

“Aww,” Robin said.

“Ah, gimme a break,” Fred suddenly said. “He’s in there threatening those poor guys. Keeping them out of the spotlight. Only openly gay player in all of pro sports?” There was the sound of a ringing phone, followed by Fred pretending to answer. “Yes, hello, is this Sean Jackson? This is every book publisher in the world calling. Book deals! Ka-ching!”

“Yeah, write a book already, Sean,” Robin said. “Call it Fifty Shades of Locker Rooms.”

“Not bad, Robin.”

“Thanks, Howard.”

“Are you writing a book, Sean?”

Sean made a drawn-out and indecisive, croaking sound.

“Moving on,” Benjy said.

“Sean, this stuff about there being no rumors about you ties into my next question, having to do with being gay in the league in general. _After_ the games, being on the road. Let’s talk about groupies, is what I’m saying.”

“The other professionals,” Benjy said.

“Right. So here you are, good looking guy—” 

“Gorgeous guy,” Robin interjected. “Stunning, to die for, gorgeous guy!”

“Thank you, Robin. It certainly wasn’t clear until your outburst. So here you are, to die for gorgeous guy, and women are throwing themselves at you all season long— and don’t tell me I’m wrong about that, ‘cause I do know. Those hotels are swarming with hot chicks.”

“That much is true.”

“Right, so— oh, well, thanks, Joe Namath.”

The studio broke into laughter, and Fred played a sound clip that sounded like a recording from the 70s, presumably Joe Namath, saying something about football being “really, _really_ hard.”

“So here’re all these chicks coming after you, and… _What’d you say to them?_ How do you get them off your back?”

“I think you mean off his lap,” Robin said.

“It’s easy enough,” Sean said. “It’s like anything else in life, Howard. If you don’t want to be a part of something, you just don’t put yourself there. You don’t participate.”

“But after a while, don’t these women get suspicious?”

Sean shrugged. “What’do I care?”

“Fair enough. But what about your teammates?”

“Lots of guys aren’t out there sleeping around.”

Then Sean lowered his head, adjusted his headset.

Inside his quiet condo, his heart bumped into a wall.

Elliot, as if it had been audible, was now looking at him.

Elliot’s eyes flitted from the screen to him, and he momentarily caught them. Then he sat very still and stared at the TV. 

Elliot stopped looking at him when Stern had to cut through the uproar Sean’s words had caused to begin talking again.

“We’ll get to that,” Howard was hollering to his studio staff, hands in the air. “I agree it’s… probably bullshit, but we’ll come back to it. I wanna finish here first. Sean, are you saying it was _easy?_ ”

Sean shrugged a shoulder. “It wasn’t the hardest thing.”

He suddenly found himself praying that somehow Howard was heterosexual enough not to think about asking the proper questions. About _men,_ not women.

“Robin, can you believe this guy?”

“I would have been crying outside his _door._ ”

“Okay, I ain’t stupid, Sean. So you weren’t doing hot chicks on the road. Who were you doing?”

“Who says I was doing anyone? I was playing football.”

“Riiiight,” Benjy said.

Inside his living room, Elliot, and Craig for that matter, was practically reading Morse code off Sean’s pauses.

“Come on, you had to have been getting your dick sucked by someone,” Robin said. 

“Exactly. Don’t jerk us around, Sean. If you weren’t getting your dick sucked by half the waterboys in the league, I’ll give up my radio contract right now. Tell me that wasn’t happening.”

“It wasn’t happening, Howard.”

“You’re full of it.”

Sean started laughing.

“Gay men sleep around. Everyone knows that.”

The studio erupted in surprise, affront, and defensiveness.

“That’s a fallacy, Howard,” Sean was saying.

“I don’t know what that word means.”

“It’s bullshit,” Sean said, laughing. “It’s complicated. We could go into history, and so-called gay culture, but we’d really be talking about time and place and maybe circumstance. The truth is, we’re— I’m mean, we’re all individuals.”

“I’m not talking about place and circumstance or some fucking history lesson. I’m talking about guys. With other guys. The barrier to doing anything is so low, it doesn’t even exist.”

“That’s what I’m saying, though. That’s not true for everyone. I mean, not everyone is— you know…” Sean’s lips tightened into a line and he lifted a shoulder. “It’s not true.”

Elliot’s expression had quietly turned stunned.

“Who’re you feeding this horseshit?” Howard said. “This is like a point of pride about being male and gay.”

“You really think, Howard, that everyone is the same,” Sean said.

“I believe that all gay men are the same. And I say that not out of bigotry,” Howard insisted, when the studio got loud again. “But as a guy. Not all straight guys might be out there sleeping around, even on the road in the NFL—”

“The real issue is the _height_ of that barrier,” Benjy said.

“Exactly. On matters purely related to mouth, hands— or feet— down a guy’s pants, there is not much to discuss beforehand. And with gay men in particular, there’s an almost...telepathic understanding of what can be done _without having to have a conversation about it._ It’s taking longer for us to have this argument than it would for you to make eye contact with the nearest waterboy and get some room service later on.” 

Sean adjusted his headset.

“Oh my God,” Petey breathed beside him.

“I— I mean— why am I having to explain this?” Howard said.

“Frankly, I think it’s hypocritical that gay men are persecuted in society,” Robin airily said. “When we all know that straight men would be paying rent in bars if women gave it up so easily.”

Fred played what sounded like stadium applause.

“Tell me I’m wrong, Howard,” Robin said loudly.

“You’re not wrong. And I’ll tell you this right now, Sean. If I were a gay man, let alone a superstar in the NFL, I’d be a _menace_ to hot guys. You wouldn’t make it out of this building in one piece.”

Robin’s rich laughter filled the airwaves. “Howard, you couldn’t get him. You’d be dreaming from afar.”

“What? I would. Sean, would you have slept with me? Be honest.”

“Well, I think I’d talk to you first, get to know you a little…”

“Oh, God. Fuck you.”

The studio fell apart laughing, and Sean smiled at Howard. Then he winked at him, so very unexpectedly, and so hot a wink that Howard sputtered into the mic.

“Did anyone catch that?” Howard said, pointing at Sean. “He just winked at me! Benjy, start a pool. A hundred bucks says I make it to home base with Sean Jackson tonight.” On the heels of which Fred played the loud, creepy sound of door a creaking that was just about the funniest thing on the show so far.

“Okay, okay. Settle down, people. Here’s where we get serious,” Howard said. “The last time you were here, you stuck by what you’re staying now, Sean, which is that you generally don’t sleep around during the season. Because it’s a distraction to quarterbacking the team.”

Sean’s pause was all but unnoticeable.

“That’s correct, Howard.”

“And I said, and we can find this clip and play it back to you if you dispute it, but we agreed that, based on that, if we ever saw you playing like shit, we were to assume that pussy was involved and that you’d give us details the next time. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, Sean.”

Sean had tightened his smile, listening as if on a game show and waiting for the clue that would give him the right answer.

“Sean Jackson,” Howard intoned. “Tell us now. What happened last October, a month into the regular season, when you played the shittiest football anyone has seen outside of high school.”

Sean took a very deep breath and crossed his arms, leveling an intense gaze on Howard. 

“And we know now it wasn’t pussy,” Robin said.

Sean started grinning.

“This guy,” Fred said.

“Are ya gonna get in trouble for saying?” Robin asked. “Cuz you _were_ engaged at the time, were you not.”

“I don’t care about that,” Howard howled. “The man made a promise. What the hell happened to you in October?”

“I got a little distracted,” Sean said.

“And…?” Howard said. “You got distracted… and…?”

“And October happened.”

“That can’t possibly be your answer, Sean. Those aren’t the details you promised.”

“But it’s all you’re getting.”

“You’re seriously not going to tell me.”

“Nah.”

“Sean, you just lost us ratings. I was advertising based on this question. Contrary to Gary’s fantasies, you are an asshole.” Howard sighed dramatically. “I have to stop being nice to my guests. Let’s move on.”

“Wait, what did we establish?” Robin asked. “That he got a little distracted? I’m distracted all the time driving in traffic, but you don’t see me crashing my car all month.”

Everyone started laughing, Sean included, who was also stroking a finger along the back of his ear.

“We established that I got distracted and I did crash my car,” Sean told her.

“Yeah, but who with?” Robin asked.

“We don’t want to get him in trouble,” Howard said. “So we’re gonna say it was with Holden Wilson, the guy he’s engaged to. I’m giving you that, Sean.”

“Thanks.”

“All kidding aside though, Howard,” Fred suddenly said. “We can’t rag on him. This is the guy who ninety-nine point nine percent of the time never lets anything distract him from the game.”

“Hold on everybody,” Howard said. “Let’s give Fred a chance to fangirl. He’s been holding it in all morning.”

Fred, unfazed, by the catcalling or anything else, proceeded to reel off Sean’s stats, including the end of season plays that had almost broken the standing records. 

Fred finished with a brief but impassioned argument for why Sean should be considered top five quarterbacks in the history of the game. 

Throughout which Robin made a protracted yawning sound.

“No need for a sound cue there, Fred,” she said. “I got this.”

“Thanks, Fred,” Sean said, sounding genuinely touched, even thug it was hard to tell with him laughing over Robin’s comment.

“There’s no taking the moment from him, Robin,” Howard said. “He got to shoot his load.”

Fred filled the airwaves with the rich sound of a match being struck and a cigarette being sharply inhaled.

“Sean, we _were_ gonna talk about the perception of gay marriage in America,” Howard said. “How things have changed, especially just after last summer and that whole thing with the Christian groups. But we decided, fuck all that. You can save that for Oprah.”

“Note to Oprah,” Robin said. “You’re boring.”

“We’re going to keep our streak of getting real answers instead. And the next one, the one question every sports fan who’s a straight guy, the Freds of the world, has been avoiding even thinking about since last Valentine’s Day. You ready, Sean?”

“Probably not.”

“Do you bottom, Sean?”

Sean had opened his mouth to give a ready comeback, probably to another generalized answer. But the question shut him right up.

“This question is so serious, the entire studio, hell, the entire _building_ has fallen silent,” Benjy said. 

“Let’s be honest, Sean,” Howard prompted. “We’re assuming you’re a top. Now for you old guys out there following the conversation based solely on what little you know about gay sex from watching 80s sitcoms, we’re talking about pitching and catching now. There’s a lot more to it than that, but let’s make sure you’re at least getting that much. So there you are, Sean, you get off the field after all that screaming and head-butting helmets with your teammates, and you just want to fuck. You just wanna stick your dick into something warm and tight, no conversations wanted or needed. This we assume.”

“This we sometimes envision,” Robin said lightly.

“Exactly,” Howard said. “No stretch of the imagination required there. But does there come a time, Sean, when candles lit, Barry White going, you just bottom all the way to heaven. And if so, it is ever everything you hope?”

Sean was laughing. And couldn’t seem to stop. And he was sure he was probably the only other person who understood just what a sweet spot Howard had just hit. Sean adjusted his headset, cleared his throat, and said, “Could you define…”

And the studio exploded with indignation.

“Sean, you’re an embarrassment!” someone from _outside_ the studio called.

“That was our producer Will The Thrill,” Howard said. “And I agree a hundred percent. Look, as a man of the world, I love the occasional strap-on. Take that as you will. You’ve all seen my interests with strap-ons on this show. And even Robin, who claims not to be into anal, is all about the coffee enema. What about you, Benjy, what’’ll you have?”

“The occasional finger.”

“Fred?”

“Any suppository will do, to be honest.”

“Sean,” Robin said. “How have we left you behind?”

“I don’t know that you have, Robin.”

“Well, answer the damn question then,” Benjy said.

“But he wants the term _defined,_ Howard,” Robin said.

“Then I’m gonna further embarrass him by having any grade schooler out there come in and define bottoming to him. Not because he doesn’t know what it is, because _the Pope_ knows what bottoming is, but because he’s being coy. And we don’t do coy on this show. This, I feel, is a legitimate concern among gay men. Does Sean Jackson bottom, and if so, does he enjoy it?”

“Howard, you gotta move off this topic,” Sean said.

“Okay, now I think you’re an embarrassment to yourself for even asking. This is not at all what we expect from a man like you, Sean.”

“Yes, and yes,” Sean said.

For a moment there was perfect silence.

And then Sean’s answer brought the place to its feet. A couple of techies strode in from outside to grip and shake Sean’s hand, like he was running for president. It was hilarious.

And in his living room, all three of his friends were staring at him.

There were hors d'oeuvres in the kitchen. He’d forgotten to mention it to them. 

But somehow he didn’t think that actual angels preparing their food right now would ever remove the images they were all now, so obviously, projecting.

“Glad to know he’s just like the rest of us,” Craig said.

“Tell us a little bit about your relationship,” Howard was saying, as everyone settled down. “You’re engaged to Holden Wilson, heir to the Wilson real estate empire, a man apparently so good in bed he’ll wreck your pro game.”

“He’s a cutie pie,” Robin said.

“If I were gay,” Howard said. “That’s the kind of guy I’d go after.”

“Really?” Robin asked, surprised. “Not more of the _body_ type? Like Sean?”

“I’d fuck guys like Sean, but I’d give them my number wrong. ‘Cause you _know_ they’re always just gonna be wanting to talk football, drink beers… troll you for blow jobs. Always want you doing stuff from porn. Which, as we all know, if you’re a self-respecting person, is completely humiliating. Holden Wilson, though. Now there’s class for you.”

Sean was losing it, hand over his mouth.

“Is this you talking, Howard?” Robin asked.

“Yeah, fuck it. I wouldn’t want to be with a guy like me.”

“Howard,” Benjy drolly said. “The phones are lit up over that comment you made about about the guy being so good in bed. Are we taking calls? I think a lot of bi-curious men out there want to give Sean their numbers to pass along.”

While everyone laughed, Sean was shaking his head, his face coloring. “You don’t take calls, right?” he lowered his voice and asked Robin, in an aside.

“We stopped doing that years ago,” she said, laughing huskily. “You’re fine, Sean.”

“But, guys, I haven’t even made my point yet. We looked it up, Sean, and his family is worth…an obscene amount of money. So here’s my question. Have you ever asked him to buy you the San Diego Chargers?”

Sean’s eyebrows went up.

“I think he’s interested, Howard,” Robin said.

“Is that something you’d like? Look, I know how it is when you’re in a serious relationship. You don’t wanna pressure. But right here on the show is the perfect time to say this to him. So if that’s what you, Sean, would like as a wedding present from Holden Wilson, say into the mic, honey, after I’m done bottoming for you on our wedding night, I want you to buy me the San Diego Chargers.”

Sean leaned his head back and laughed in a way he didn’t think he had ever seen.

“He _loves_ the idea,” Fred said.

“Actually, I love the idea,” Robin said. “If that’s what spreading your legs’ll get ya, where do I sign up?”

He was still enthralled watching Sean smile like that.

“We’ll let him mull it over,” Howard said. “A great idea for free. But Sean, what I mean is— this guy, he had to be a high target. How’d you get him? Does his family have box seats at Qualcomm? You two share hedge fund managers?”

Sean recovered himself, sighed, and briefly said, “We both live in LA.”

“You two hang at the same gay strip clubs, is what you’re saying,” Benjy said.

“Listen, if you’re him and you’re going off the market,” Robin said. “Sean Jackson is a winning pick.”

“Thank you, Robin.”

“You’re welcome, Sean. Am I right, Howard?”

“Well, no offense, Sean, but I gotta think that the competition must have been pretty stiff. Not saying he’s the only one of his kind out there, but you had to have some winning moves the other side didn’t see coming. I mean, if straight guys are competitive when it comes to women, I can only imagine what it’s like with gay men.”

Eliot was looking at him. 

He dropped his gaze to his hands, wondering what all this talk was about _winning_ people. Didn’t the subject have any say?

“Howard, here’s your answer,” Robin offered. “He didn’t sleep around in the league, he was pure as the driven snow. Chaste to the end. And it’s in the prenup that he be over thirty-five and a virgin. Perfect!”

The recorded clanging of bells sounded through the studio, to cheers.

“All right, all right. Now we’re headed into our final segment.”

The studio aww’d and booed.

“I have here a list of names that I’m gonna read out, Sean. This is a list that we in the studio complied of famous men we think are Sean Jackson-league hot. I’ll read out their names and you’re gonna yea or nay if, given the chance, you’d toss their salads.”

“Hey!” Robin cried. “His fiancé’s listening!”

“My fiancé?” Sean said. “I hope to God my _mother_ has no idea what he just said.”

“You’re not getting out of this.”

“Wait, are we doing this regardless of sexual orientation?” Fred asked.

“Says the guy who’d give it up to Sean Jackson for a box seat,” Benjy said.

“What if I don’t answer?” Sean asked.

“We’ll take that as a definitely.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Robin. Here we go. Idris Elba.”

Sean started laughing.

“Ken Watanabe.”

Sean tapped his sofa’s the armrest, smiling.

“Ryan Gosling.”

“I met him once, at a party.”

“Is that supposed to be an answer?”

“David Beckham.”

“Don’t even try to say no to that,” Benjy said.

“Maybe Benjy should be up here.”

“Tom Brady. Actually, you don’t have to answer that, out of professional courtesy.”

“I think he’d be cool with my answer.”

“Which is?”

“That he’s a great husband and father.”

“This is a waste of my time. David Gandy.”

“Don’t know who that is.”

“He’s a model.”

“Zayn Malik.”

“Or him,” Sean said.

“That kid from One Direction.”

“Oh… isn’t he underaged?”

“So you do know him. And you have thought about it. So let’s mark that a yes.”

“Bradley Cooper.”

Sean tried to cover the interested looked that crossed his face.

“We’re marking that as an _I wish._ ”

“And…Holden Wilson.”

“Definitely,” Sean said, smiling. “Yes.”

There were all-round cheers, while Fred played the clanging bell again.

“Sean, you’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s obvious you love this guy and you’re gonna have a great marriage. Cause you came out of the closet in the NFL for him, right?”

“You are absolutely right.”

“Fuck, I don’t know what beats that,” Benjy said.

“That’s having your priorities in order,” Howard agreed. “Are you looking forward to marriage? Because it’s actually kind of amazing.”

“I know it’s probably not cool to say this, but it’s all I think about, Howard.”

“Aww,” Robin said.

“So there you have it, folks. Everything you heard is true. Sean Jackson is gay, Fred says he’s still the quarterback to beat, and Sean about to marry into one of the richest families in America.”

“So basically, you won.”

“I like to think so, Robin.”

“Sean, what’d you have to say to those guys that missed their chance? Anything at all.”

There was a beat.

Howard had obviously meant the men who had missed a chance at getting at Sean. But Sean hadn’t interpreted it that way.

It was like stopping time. Sean’s eyes hardened in a blink.

And then were back to themselves in another.

“I think everything worked out for the best,” Sean said, a little tightly.

“I’ll take that answer. And what’d you have coming in the offseason?”

“Well, I do actually have an interview with Oprah, funny enough. Wait, am I allowed to say that on here?” 

“No, you asshole.”

Robin laughed. “Now we’re going to have to get into it with Oprah.”

“Sean, it’s been a fantastic interview. Come back and see us again next year. At which time we want you to bring us a Super Bowl ring.”

“I’ll do my best to make it happen.”

“You’re an awesome guy.”

“Settle down, Fred. Sean, I’m giving you the last word.”

“Well, Howard, wouldn’t be right to end without a huge thanks to all the gay rights groups out there. You’ve changed the world for all of us. And thanks to you, this summer, I’m having it all.”

“Aww,” Robin said. “Flash us the ring, Sean.”

Sean lifted his left hand, got a smattering of applause.

“Winning moves, Howard,” Benjy said.

“We’re closing with that,” Howard said. “Get off the sofa, Sean.”

—

Loud music and graphics ushered out the show.

Promos blared in for the next show. Without being asked, he tapped the mute button. The ensuing silence seemed to make more sense. 

But no one in his living room was watching anyway. Probably, he was the only one to see that the feed had cut from the studio to Sean walking down a corridor with two producers, smiling and giving a thumbs up to the cameras.

The quiet was heavy in his living room.

Petey, incapable of subtly, loudly asked, “Does Sean have some kind of problem with Holden’s past or something? Why do I get the feeling that he was being _judgmental?_ ”

It was like some kind of signal. 

Instantly, like a dam breaking, all their phones went up with sharp, screaming, notifications. 

Startled, Elliot looked about him for his phone. Craig less so, Petey after long moments to realize his was going off as well.

It Petey was taking a moment, it took him even long to realize that his was going off as well. And that it was on a side table in the foyer.

His friends all reached for their phones. The notifications were still coming. It seemed like they were all getting text messages at the same time. 

Petey, next to him, was frowning intensely at his phone. Then his eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. “Oh, my,” he said quietly. 

His eyes shot to Elliot, who had an eyebrow cocked. And then to Craig, who he suddenly realized had probably had a warning text even before the show started. Craig was reading his BlackBerry with the same surprised expression as earlier.

“What the hell is happening?” he asked, dreadfully.

Craig, to his surprise, began smiling. 

The phone was getting more texts while Craig was reading. Craig then put the phone back in his pocket, giving him a look that seemed to say, _Isn’t this exciting,_ before going back to a magazine.

Petey was tapping through text after text. Elliot likewise seemed too busy reading to even look at him. Quickly, he stood up and made his way around chairs to the foyer where he had left his phone. 

He picked it up, pressed the home button and saw twelve unread text messages. More entering as he watched. About to tap them open, he stopped, the moment reminding him, badly, of the emails from the other day.

Suddenly, one came in from Michelle. He immediately tapped it open.

_Hot!_

That was all it said.

He looked toward the living room where Petey and Elliot were still reading their phones. He couldn’t see their expressions from where he was. Hesitantly, he opened his messages and saw a screen full of _phone numbers…_ so names he had deleted from his contacts, probably in the last year and for obvious reasons. 

Scrolling, he saw first lines from all of them:

_Wow, Holden, it’s hard to put into words what I’m..._

_Hi, Wilson, if you ever just need a..._

_Hope you find happiness with him..._

_Hi, Holden, I know it’s been a while but I just have to say..._

“Get over here!” Petey called. “Are you seeing this?”

He wondered whether he looked as pale as he felt.

“You can stop burying your head in the sand now, Holden,” Petey said from the living room. “Sean just woke the beast.”

Elliot, done reading, put down his phone and picked up his wine glass. And occupied himself taking long, involved sips. 

Craig turned the page on his fresh issue of ESPN magazine. Then looked across the room at him.

“Weekend to talk, you said?” Craig asked.

*


	8. Chapter 8

But what happened was that on Monday evening, at a reception for the owner of a media company, a small section of crazy broke lose and drifted in his direction.

Sean had ended up staying the weekend in New York and wasn’t due back in LA until Tuesday morning. The reactionary texts from Friday evening were still on his mind. It wasn’t a great sign that even Michelle had responded. If even she had been able to sense the challenge that Sean had thrown out there, then Eddie’s note and those emails and texts might just be the beginning of an arduous summer.

But late Monday afternoon, he had gotten a call from Elliot telling him that his dad had called wanting to know how to reach him. Apparently his mother had been trying to remind him to attend the reception.

So many reasons to have found that weird, but he had been a little embarrassed at the silence that had accompanied Elliot’s phone call. The need for the call had seemed to confirm to Elliot that he was being difficult to everyone. 

Whereas he should have been thinking about why his mother would want to remind him to attend a reception, one among many. His family owned shares in the company and his mother was on the board. But that didn’t make the reception stand out in any regard.

But feeling judged by Elliot’s heavy silence, he had just focused on being there. And it felt that much nicer because Elliot agreed to join him. It had felt like he was succeeding in getting his friendship back on track.

Darren Moran, therefore, was the very last thing or person on his mind. 

In fact, even when he noticed him across the room, Darren still wasn’t on his mind.

Elliot had arrived about a half hour after him, still giving him residual looks from their drama. After Sean’s Stern interview he’d thought they’d talk. But Elliot had merely asked whether Sean was back, and when he had said no, Elliot had simply said to call him when Sean was. He had hardly believed it. But he got it. It had been a very long time since either of them had hurt the other's feelings. Maybe since college. But he did recognize the discomfort, and he was determined to resolve it as soon as he knew it wouldn’t make Sean as defensive as a steel wall.

Darren, meanwhile, appeared very much his usual self. Confident that all eyes were on him. A year after his rude and still mysterious words that had tripped Sean’s self-control and sent them both to the hospital, he looked none the worse.

Sighting him strolling among guests, he did continue to wonder what Darren had said to Sean. Although he guessed it might not have been anything particularly evil. Having gotten an up-close understanding of the very bad sensations his past had left with Sean, it probably hadn’t taken much.

Perpetually under the assumption that someone somewhere was watching him with admiration, Darren glanced around just as he was going through this and saw him looking They hadn’t seen each other since last July and there was an instant air of defensiveness when their eyes met. Darren swept a hesitant look over him before turning away.

The act left him surprised. He didn’t think he had ever seen Darren look unsure. Besides the night at the private hospital room at Cedars when Darren had been hurting physically and mentally from the beating Sean had given him.

Good or bad, he liked how he had left that particular night. Only made better when he bore in mind what Elliot had told him about Darren’s indiscretions at business school. Very surprising and very inappropriate.

Still, he knew better than to think Darren’s whipped demeanor had anything to do with having turned a new leaf.

Setting his empty cocktail glass on a side table, he excused himself from his group and was making way to the men’s room when he glanced across the room and caught Elliot’s eye. Elliot was sitting with some guests, ostensibly listening to conversation, but also appeared to have noticed the small exchange with Darren. Elliot slowly shook his head, briefly rolling his eyes in disgust. Shaking his head as well, he left the reception room, continuing down the hallway.

Smiling as he passed guests, he pushed open the large wooden door at the end. He had entered, the door swinging shut behind him, when it suddenly swung inward again. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Darren walking in.

They were alone in the men’s room.

“Hi, Holden.”

“Hi, Darren,” he said causally, continuing toward the stall at the end. “This isn’t sleazy at all.”

“I needed to talk to you somewhere no one would see and make presumptions.”

He stopped at the stall door, looking back at Darren, disbelieving that Darren was being so dense. 

“Well," he said. "In that case, why don’t you come on in?”

“Stop giving me attitude and listen for a second. I-is Sean still in New York?”

He stood at the stall and gave Darren a hard stare.

“That’s not what I mean. You’re making this very difficult. I- I wanted to apologize about the last time. About last year.” And before he could try to understand what exactly was happening, Darren pushed on. “I shouldn’t have— insulted your…situation…with Sean. And I shouldn’t have said what I did to him. And— I’m sorry.”

He was hotly tempted; for a hot, hot moment he wanted to ask what exactly he had said to set a man practically incapable of turning over during the summer to physical assault. But he would never give Darren that kind of advantage.

Darren continued staring at him, waiting for a response.

This...humility was new. But old habits died hard, and if it had taken him three years to break his bad ones where sexual partners were concerned, he wasn’t about to extend Darren any greater leeway than he would have given himself.

Still at the stall’s entrance, he shrugged. 

“Apology accepted.” 

“I- I also wanted to say that— I think— Alastair genuinely likes him.” Darren let out a hard breath. “That’s a first.”

_Maybe because he’s not trying to seduce him harder than the person he’s supposed to be with._

Darren fell silent, and he didn’t say anything.

“I behaved badly last year. I guess I couldn’t believe that you could actually fall for anyone. That you’d let anyone walk around acting like they owned you. I guess wasn’t prepared for that. And— I overreacted.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault that you couldn’t deal.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“I don’t know what you expect from this weird conversation.”

And frankly, all it was doing was leaving him with a deeper gratitude for Sean who had made him face his own nonsense. 

“Holden, I— I’m—” 

He turned from the stall and looked at Darren, who seemed to tighten all over.

“I just wanted to… I wanted to wish you— both of you— all the luck and happiness in the world. You and Sean, I mean. Since— I won’t be at the wedding. He’s… he’s…”

Darren then stopped talking.

He just stared

“Thanks,” he said, and after an even longer, hanging moment, he entered the stall.

Inside, he quietly listened until he heard Darren release a huge breath, open the door, and heard it swing back shut. 

He stood there for a long time, not sure of what the hell had just happened.

—

“Am I hallucinating or did Darren go after you into the men’s room?”

With no idea whether Darren had left the party or not, he kept his back to the ballroom and talked with Elliot by the patio doors. 

“Don’t look in there. I don’t want him seeing and thinking I’m giving him more attention than he deserves.”

Back to the patio doors, Elliot watched him with keen eyes while he told him everything that had happened.

Elliot’s jaw dropped in slow increments. When he was done, and Elliot still hadn’t spoken, he shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the hotel’s brick wall, lowering his voice even more.

“What’s he up to?”

“Nothing good, obviously. But the question is, why do you look like you care?”

He looked at his shoes and gave the question serious contemplation. Taking into account everything from his successful return from Johnston to Kate’s rather surprising assessment of his travel exploits, as some determinant of independence of character, which he might be willing to accede to, to those obviously pointed emails, and lastly to Sean’s entirely unsubtle messages in the Stern interview.

The answer was that he cared because he had come too far. He knew himself too well at this point, and he wasn’t up for anything emotionally crazy this summer.

“It’s bad enough that I can’t get Sean to talk to me about what he’s feeling beyond what circumstances forced him to say in February,” he said to Elliot. “But if I have to worry about what Darren might be up to behind my back, I swear I’ll just lock up both of them—all of them, if I have to—until the summer’s over. Who needs this. I just wanna marry the guy.”

He had finished speaking before he remembered that Elliot had no actual clue what he was talking about. He had never mentioned Sean’s anger over his past to him, nor the emails, or anything.

Caught now, he raised quick, nervous eyes at Elliot. 

Elliot had pinned his brown eyes on him, and had managed to do that thing he did where he couldn’t look away, even if he wanted to, and quietly said, “Start… talking.”

**

_END OF PART I_


End file.
